


Run, Banner! Run!

by Adenil



Series: Seeing What Sticks [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Bannertech, Bruce Banner!Triggers, Catharsis, Clint is a good friend, M/M, PTSD, Tony sometimes does dumb things, but sometimes he feels a little lost, he still tries, to do the right thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i></i><br/><i>Bruce’s face was hidden by his hands, but Clint could still see the tight line of his jaw as he clenched his teeth, the pulse of his heart in his neck. He counted the beats, as he knew Bruce was. Bruce was well below accidental-Hulk-out range, but still he cowered there. He didn’t look at Clint, and Clint wondered if Bruce could even look at himself. </i><br/> </p><p>  <i>“Tony tried to kiss me.”</i><br/>__</p><p>Once every week or so, Bruce Banner runs. Clint is always there to bring him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Once every week or so, Bruce Banner would run.

 

It was sort of becoming a habit for Clint, now, to hear Jarvis come over the speakers with a quiet _Agent Barton?_ He’d drop whatever he was doing and suit up: uniform, bow, quiver, a couple sandwiches, and a map of wherever they thought Bruce had gone. He’d take the quinjet sometimes; steal a car from Tony on others. A few times he’d only had to walk down the street. They always caught Bruce right away—or rather, he let himself _be_ caught, usually before he’d made it out of the state.

 

Today was a bit different, though. Bruce was already in Saskatchewan by the time they pinpointed him, even though Tony had raised the alarm immediately.

 

Tony wanted to go after him, of course, as he usually did. On his first disappearance Tony had his suit most of the way on before Jarvis could finish saying _left the building_. A cold glare from Pepper and a few choice words from Steve had convinced him that was a bad idea. They may have been friends, but the Hulkbuster project still bore his name.

 

There had been a lot of worrying during that first disappearance, about who would go fetch him. Natasha had been right out. She’d been the one to collect him during the Loki crisis, and although she knew all his tricks, _he_ knew that, too. There was mutual distrust that ran too deep.

 

With Thor off world, and probably a bad choice anyway, Steve had straightened his back. He had that _Captain America_ stance already in place when he said, firmly, that he would go collect Dr. Banner.

 

Clint had let him get all the way into the elevator before he’d placed a hand on Steve’s arm and said, “The Captain America Project has some bad memories attached to it for Banner. I’ll go.”

 

Which was how he ended up collecting Bruce from under a bridge and bringing him home.

 

But that was just the first time. They were a well-oiled machine by now. Clint always went to fetch Bruce.

 

Clint hadn’t kept track of all the disappearances, but if he asked Jarvis he figured there would be at least thirty of them. Bruce just needed that reminder, every now and then, that he could leave if he wanted. Maybe he also needed a reminder that his friends would come looking for him, but Clint didn’t think it was his place to ask about that. According to Bruce, he had no friends. Never would. Late-night lab sessions with Tony, and yoga with Natasha, and pancakes with Steve, and story-telling with Thor, and quiet time with Clint were all just _things_ that he did. None of them were _really_ his friends.

 

Clint didn’t like it, but he could deal with it. He knew Tony liked it even less, and dealt with it even less well.

 

But still… this was different.

 

He parked the car he had lifted off Tony outside the motel. It was tiny and rundown and just really _depressing_. Clint considered his approach for a moment as he shouldered his bow and quiver—disguised to look like a small backpack—and locked the car doors. Something about it just _felt_ different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and so he decided to act like nothing was wrong.

 

There were several things that were _actually_ different, of course. Bruce had gone further, fought harder to stay hidden. But still he had let himself be found, which had to count for something.

 

He purchased a room for the night from the sweet young thing behind the counter. He was suave, and debonair, and it didn’t take long for her to spill that there was a man with curly hair who had checked in earlier. She didn’t even seem suspicious when he asked.

 

Clint pretended to text when she looked away, and accessed her computer systems to find where one _David Roberts_ was spending the evening. Room 518, and Clint was actually a little surprised that Bruce had taken the top floor. Maybe he hadn’t had a choice.

 

Which was how he found himself in front of Bruce’s door, suddenly feeling like he’d been a little crazy. Of _course_ nothing was wrong. Bruce was just having a normal freak-out. So he knocked on the door in the code they had developed after a few bad scares early on, and then used his SHIELD-issued card to open it.

 

“Hey, Bruce,” he said as he entered. “Weather here sucks. What made you chose—”

 

It was probably a testament to how much he had grown to trust his team, but he completely did not see the punch coming.

 

It was Bruce. Definitely. One-hundred percent, no-green-here-folks, Bruce Banner who punched him. The punch was weak, meant more to startle than bruise, and Bruce already had his other hand up and was trying to shove Clint out of the room.

 

Clint stumbled and probably would have fallen out the door, if it hadn’t been a ridiculously heavy motel door that had tried to close almost the second he’d stepped through. As it was, his back hit the edge of the door and he hissed. He brought his own arm up and elbowed Bruce in the jaw.

 

Bruce jerked back, clutching at his face, and Clint advanced. He pushed him down the hallway into the room proper, letting the door close.

 

“What the hell, Bruce?” He had his arms up, still, and was able to block Bruce’s next attack, but not the one after that. Bruce grabbed his arms and spun him, pinning him against the wall. His grip was ridiculously strong, and Clint wondered if he was channeling the other guy, or if his strength training with Steve was paying off that well.

 

Bruce didn’t say anything, just jerked him back and slammed him against the wall again. Clint took a moment to register the situation. They were alone in the room. Bruce was afraid, but of _Clint_ , which really just sucked. He’d thought they’d come a long way from that broken street corner in Manhattan.

 

Clint decided it was time to fight back. He jerked away and shoved Bruce _hard_. Green Guy or no, Bruce was a tiny thing as Clint pushed him. Bruce stumbled back and tripped over the ottoman in the middle of the room. His arms pin wheeled for a moment as he tried to balance, but he failed. He fell backwards over the ottoman and landed in a heap on the other side with a sickening _crack_ , his legs still tangled on the piece of furniture.

 

Bruce curled into a ball on the floor, covering his head, and Clint sucked in a breath.

 

He watched Bruce just lie there for a moment. He knew the signs of Bruce counting his breaths, trying to get himself under control, and so he didn’t interrupt. The man probably had a splitting headache, but as long as the injury wasn’t life-threatening, Clint wasn’t worried.

 

When Bruce’s breathing calmed, but he didn’t unwravel, _still_ didn’t talk, Clint walked over and sat cross-legged on the floor beside him.

 

Bruce’s face was hidden by his hands, but Clint could still see the tight line of his jaw as he clenched his teeth, the pulse of his heart in his neck. He counted the beats, as he knew Bruce was. Bruce was well below accidental-Hulk-out range, but still he cowered there. He didn’t look at Clint, and Clint wondered if Bruce could even look at himself.

 

“Tony tried to kiss me.”

 

Clint opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed his mouth with a click. _Really should say something,_ he thought, so he opened his mouth again and said, “Uh.”

 

Bruce laughed, and it was the most self-deprecating damned _bullshit_ laugh that Clint had ever heard that it immediately made his blood boil. Clint clenched his fists, and this time when he opened his mouth he actually thought he had something intelligent to say.

 

“Honestly, the whole team thought you’d been doing that since Steve caught him poking you with a stick.”

 

“What?” Bruce peeked out from behind his hands for a moment, wary. “They have so little faith in him?”

 

“Little…what?” Clint blinked down at Bruce, who quickly hid his face again. It was a strange nervous tic, one that Clint hadn’t seen from Bruce before. Bruce wrung his hands or hunched his shoulders or just disappeared for real. He didn’t hide his face. “Bruce, why do you think he did that?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Bruce’s voice was slightly muffled behind his hands. “It was—it was just for an experiment, something to get me to react. Like on the helicarrier. Or he, I, uh, made him think that I…” He trailed off, holding very still.

 

Clint clenched and unclenched his fists again, just staring at him. He suddenly felt woefully unprepared to handle this. He wondered, fleetingly, why this couldn’t be like all the other times when they just watched _Dog Cops_ or looked at the stars or got tea and coffee until Bruce was ready to come home. “He didn’t ask if it was all right?”

 

That got Bruce peeking out again, confusion on his face. “Ask?”

 

“You don’t just—” Clint made a sweeping motion with one hand. “— _kiss_ someone without asking. Especially someone on this team. We’re the most messed up bunch of losers the world’s ever seen. We’ve got trauma so deep our grandkids would feel it, if we could ever manage to get close enough to someone to reproduce.” Bruce was just staring at him now, and so he went on. “If someone tried that shit on me they’d be flat on their ass. But… shit, Bruce. You really think Tony did that as an experiment?”

 

Slowly, Bruce nodded.

 

Clint tried not to let the tension in his jaw show. “I get why you might think that, but I don’t think that’s why he did it. Even Tony Stark has to draw the line somewhere. Do you… he _likes_ you, Bruce. That’s why people do stuff like that.” Clint felt a little lost, wondering when he’d become the responsible adult of the group.

 

Bruce grimaced as if the very idea put a bad taste in his mouth. “He’s a good person,” he said after a moment, as if he had to convince himself, or thought he had to convince Clint. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Nothing good could come from that. I just… I just needed to get away, Clint.” He slowly lowered his hands to his stomach and folded them there. He was still lying on the floor, gazing up at Clint, and Clint felt his heart clench.

  
“Nothing good? Bruce, if something makes you happy you’re allowed to experience it.”

 

“No,” Bruce said calmly, almost serenely. “I’m not.” He was looking at Clint, but it was like he was looking _through_ him to the wall behind him. “I must have… done something to confuse him. To make him stray.”

 

 _Oh, shit, Pepper_. Clint clenched his fists again. “Bruce, what the fuck. That was Tony’s bad decision.” Bruce nodded a little, and Clint hastened to add, “ _You_ are not the bad decision. Him being a twat and cheating on his girlfriend _is._ You—you would be a _good_ decision for him, if not for that.”

 

Bruce wrinkled his nose again in confusion. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

 

“Haven’t you ever…?” Clint blinked a little. He realized his nails were cutting into his palm, and he relaxed his hands. He felt completely lost. He wondered what Coulson would say in a situation like this. Hell, even Natasha or Steve would have been a better choice. But it had always fallen on Clint to bring Bruce home. “Hasn’t anyone ever loved you before?”

 

Bruce sucked in a breath, eyes flashing. Clint suddenly remembered his own earlier comment about trauma and felt a little sick. He could see a lot of that trauma roiling through the other man as he thought about it. It made Clint ill to see how long he had to think.

 

“No,” Bruce said after a moment. “No one could love me.”

 

“Fuck.” It was Clint’s turn to bury his face in his hands. He rubbed at his face for a moment. “Fuck,” he said again. “I’ve read your file,” he said when his brain stopped being full of cuss words. “I _know_ about Betty Ross.” He could hear Bruce shifting, trying to get away, and he dropped his hands from his face to pin Bruce to the ground with his gaze. “You didn’t love her?”

 

“Of course I did.” Bruce sounded pissed off now, and it gave Clint a little hope. “I still do. I always will. But she—” He gestured weakly. “How could she? She tolerated me. She was the best I could ever hope for, and I constantly ruined her life.”

 

The sick feeling in Clint’s stomach expanded. He could tell that Bruce meant more than just the intrusion of the other guy when he said that. Bruce honestly thought that he was the worst thing to ever happen to Betty Ross, and not just because he sometimes became a bit green around the gills.

 

“I guess I was pretty selfish,” Bruce was still talking. “Even though I was bad for her I still wanted to be around her.” His voice was soft, almost absent. As if he wasn’t there mentally. “But I would do anything for her. Even though I knew I should go, when she asked me to stay…”

 

Clint desperately wanted to hug Bruce, but his mantra of _trauma, trauma, trauma_ kept him still. He wasn’t… he wasn’t good at words, okay? He was good at physical things. He knew a hug right then would have made him feel better, but he couldn’t do that. Bruce just looked so lost, so empty, as he held still on the floor of the motel and told Clint things Clint was never meant to hear.

 

“Stop,” Clint said, even though Bruce hadn’t said anything for a while. “That’s just… Betty Ross _loved_ you, okay? People don’t do stuff like she did unless they love you. You’re—Tony loves you, too. He has a shit way of showing it, but he does. We all do. The team loves you. Natasha, Thor, Steve. You are an Avenger and a friend and we love you. _I_ love you. You are a person who is loved, okay?”

 

The sick feeling had reached its peak, and Clint honestly thought he might have to stand and go throw up. He concentrated on clenching and unclenching his fists instead, wondering if it would be a social faux pas to get out his bow and cradle it. He stared down at Bruce, who was blinking up at him blankly. He just looked so confused and lost. His lips were pursed in a tight line as he considered. Clint recognized the look—it was the same one he got in the lab sometimes, when even Tony couldn’t solve the latest puzzle. Normally, Clint liked that look. He didn’t see it often, the few times he’d been in the lab didn’t often coincide with the few times Bruce Banner couldn’t figure something out. But it made him smile to see Bruce so enthralled.

 

Now, it made Clint want to shake everyone who had ever come in contact with Bruce.

 

Bruce slowly titled his head to the side, as if a better angle would help him see the problem. His eyes were calm, calculating, and Clint held very still like he was afraid to spook the wild scientist in his natural habitat.

 

“But…why?”

 

There were so many reasons; Clint didn’t even know where to start. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slumped forward. “Because you deserve it,” he said. His voice cracked a little. “Because you are always the smartest person in the room, but so god damned modest that no one will ever know it. Because even though you act all tiny and frail, you’re the toughest person I know—and I don’t mean because of the other guy. You have the best moral code of anyone I’ve ever seen. You could be on your dying breath and you would use it to ask how you could _help_. Because I’ve read your file, and ninety percent of the time you didn’t move to escape capture. You moved because you found somewhere that needed your help more than the last place. Because you’re my friend. Christ, Bruce. Has no one ever told you these things?”

 

Bruce had gone very still, just listening, as Clint grew more and more desperate to get Bruce to _understand_ that it was okay. He seemed to realize there was a question there, because he looked away.

 

“No one’s ever said any of that.”

 

“Not even—”

 

“Not since my mother.”

 

“Oh.” Clint was making fists again, and he struggled to relax his grip. “Well, it’s all true.” He felt a little dumb.

 

Bruce was still looking away at the far wall. He took in a few steadying breaths before speaking. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

 

“It’s fine; I’ve had worse.” Clint studied him. He saw the way Bruce was still curled up into himself on the carpet, hugging his stomach. He saw the slight quiver of his muscles, the way his eyelid twitched. “When’s the last time you slept?”

 

Bruce deflated a little, if it was even possible for him to get smaller. “The morning before I left.”

 

Clint sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That was almost three days ago.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You need to sleep.” Clint was suddenly struck with the horrifying realization that most of this conversation had only occurred _because_ Bruce was sleep deprived. It sank like a stone into his gut, and he hoped against hope that Bruce didn’t hate him too much in the morning. “I won’t call the team yet, okay?” Bruce just looked so frail, but he nodded at Clint’s words. “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

Bruce stiffened for a moment before nodding again. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and when Clint offered a hand up, he took it. He wobbled for a moment after he stood, and Clint helped him over to the bed. Bruce climbed in fully clothed, hardly disturbing the pressed sheets as he climbed under them and rested his curly head against the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, hands folded over his stomach, as Clint turned off the light.

 

They were plunged into semi-darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Bruce said, quietly. “If you don’t want to. I…understand if you don’t trust me, but—”

 

“I trust you. I’m staying because I want to.” He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge, far enough away that he hoped Bruce didn’t feel like his space was invaded. He carefully removed his pack and set it on the floor, still itching to draw his bow, but knowing that was a bad idea.

 

“Okay,” Bruce said once he was settled. Clint was looking away, but he could hear the small hopeful note in Bruce’s voice. It lessened some of the sick feeling.

 

Clint decided to treat this like just another op. He’d stayed up for hours in the past, just watching. He could keep an eye out for trouble and let Bruce get some much-needed rest, and in the morning (or afternoon, or whenever Bruce woke up) they could deal with this.

 

Or not deal with it, if that was what Bruce wanted.

 

He listened to Bruce breathe for a long time as he mentally catalogued escape routes and potential weapons in the room. It was mostly to keep himself awake and distracted, but he soon ran out of creative ways to kill an intruder with a bible, and his thoughts drifted.

 

Clint’s mind wandered back to all the other times Bruce had run. He’d thought, at the time, that Bruce just needed to get out and clear his head. Or perhaps that he needed to know the team had his back. Now, Clint thought that maybe Bruce had felt _too_ wanted. What had made him run, those other times? Had it been Tony Stark invading his space in the lab? Natasha’s pleasant smile after _Child’s Pose_? Had Steve brushed against him in the kitchen and not yanked away? Had Thor given him one of those brotherly pats that could send your knees quaking?

 

And what had Clint done?

 

It hurt, because he actually _could_ remember a few times when he’d finally thought he was getting through to Bruce. Finally thought that maybe they were actually friends; thought that maybe Bruce actually viewed himself as part of the team. All those times, Bruce had run. Not far, not fast, but still run.

 

But he’d always let Clint come get him. Hell, it had practically been _relaxing_ sometimes, to join Bruce on his little excursions. They would watch television in whatever motel Bruce had found himself in. Or, if he was outside they would build a fire and listen to nature. It had been almost quaint, almost nice, something only the two of them shared.

 

Clint turned a little so he was facing Bruce, and wasn’t really surprised to see the other man looking back at him.

 

Bruce’s face was gaunt in the shadow of the street lights. He just seemed weary, and Clint knew that he was exhausted. Clint had been sitting there, daydreaming, for over an hour, but still Bruce hadn’t fallen asleep.

 

“Can’t sleep?”

 

Bruce startled a little and glanced away. “Sorry,” he said. “If I’m bothering you. It’s…hard, sometimes, to sleep.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint twisted around so his legs were on the bed as well. He half-lay, half-sat on the bed, still a good foot-and-a-half away from Bruce. “I know that feeling.”

 

He traced his eyes over Bruce, still tucked under the covers, hands over his stomach, just breathing and holding very still. Clint wondered if he’d tried to meditate, or if he’d just sat there with his own thoughts. The very idea made Clint a little ill again.

 

“Is it all right if I touch your arm?”

 

Bruce frowned at him. He slipped his gaze back down to stare at Clint, confusion evident in his features. “I can’t stop you.”

 

Clint sighed. “Yes, you can. If you say no, I won’t. If you don’t say _yes_ , then I won’t.” He really wanted to. Words were failing him more than usual in the darkness of the motel room. He had no idea what to do. He felt like he was throwing things at the wall and seeing what stuck.

 

Bruce looked at him for a moment. Slowly, he lowered his arm so it lay beside him, still over the covers. “Yes,” he said. “All right.”

 

Clint reached out carefully and placed a hand on Bruce’s bicep. He could feel Bruce stiffen and start to pull away, and he lifted his hand again, hovering above him for a moment.

 

“Where’s the best place?”

 

Bruce seemed to consider, probably mentally cataloguing his range of triggers. Clint wondered how many times people had grabbed Bruce’s arm to force him to do something, how many times they’d held him down, or twisted his wrist, or took his elbow as they _swore_ that they weren’t after the Hulk.

 

“Here.” Bruce indicated a spot on his forearm, and Clint rested his hand there. Bruce stared at it like it was an alien for a long time, but eventually he turned his face back up to the ceiling.

 

Clint held still until Bruce relaxed under his touch, his eyes slipping shut. Clint still felt sick, disturbed, but as Bruce began to breathe more easily, he relaxed a little as well.

 

He waited a long time, until Bruce well and truly was asleep, and Clint’s other arm was stiff with pins and needles. He wanted to stay like that, giving some sort of comfort to the other man, but he didn’t. The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon. Carefully, Clint pulled away.

 

He’d had to leave quietly from a lot of beds for a lot of reasons, and he used that skill now. He slipped from the mattress and went across the room to draw the blinds closed, plunging the room into a strange semi-darkness again. Then, he carefully left the room to stand in the hall.

 

Clint hoped that the motel had good soundproofing as he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Natasha’s number.

 

“Found him yet?” she asked, in the same tone a normal person would use to say hello.

 

“Not yet. False lead.” Clint leaned against the wall and scuffed his toe against the carpet. “Got another one, though. He might be heading north on a logging truck.”

 

Natasha hummed. “He’s being more elusive than normal.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint glanced back at the door, hoping that Bruce was still in the bed, asleep. “Something must have shaken him. Or, he’s doing this to annoy me.” He laughed, it felt hollow, but he knew it sounded real. “Must be a late birthday present.”

 

She didn’t laugh, but he could hear the warmth in her voice. “Sometimes I do wonder if he leaves just so you two can go camping.” She paused, and it was a significant pause that made him stay silent as well. “Clint…as soon as you find him, give Tony a call, all right?”

 

Clint made a face. He was alone in the hallway, no one around to see it, but as he painted confusion on his face it made it easier to lie. “Uh, sure. I always do. What’s up?”

 

“He seems to think this one is his fault.”

 

Clint closed his eyes for a moment, grounding himself. “Well, I’ll call him now and give him an update, if that’ll help.”

 

“It might. He’s been driving Steve up a wall. He’s locked himself in his lab. He won’t even let Pepper in, which has them fighting again. It’s… kind of a mess.”

 

“I’ll call,” Clint promised. He didn’t add _but he might not like to hear from me_.

 

“Thanks, Clint. Come home soon, okay?”

 

“Right.” He flipped his thumb over the screen and stared at it, running through the variables. After a moment, he thumbed through his contacts list and dialed Tony.

 

“If you so much as think about trying to track this phone call, he and I are gone, got that?”

 

He heard Tony take a deep breath, then let it out. He hoped Tony was still alone in his lab. Clint stared at the far wall, trying to burn holes in it with his gaze.

 

“Fine,” Tony said after a while. “Is he all right?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint lied. “No thanks to you.”

 

He could practically hear Tony grinding his teeth on the other end of the line. “What the hell, Barton? I didn’t do _anything_.”

 

“Yes you _did_.” Clint ground his teeth right back, his other hand making a fist as he talked. “You thought with your dick instead of that brain you won’t shut up about.”

 

For a second, Clint thought the call had been dropped, because Tony was so silent. It was so strange to hear a quiet Tony, that Clint was once again hurled into that whirlwind of confusion. He didn’t know what to do. His training hadn’t prepared him for this. Shit. What would Coulson say?

 

“That’s not what happened,” Tony said belatedly. “He—I… okay, that kind of happened.” Clint grimaced at his words. “But not like how you’re thinking, all right?”

 

“Really? Because what I’m thinking is the guy with a beautiful, loving girlfriend tried to kiss his _best friend_ who also happens to be the Hulk.” He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling and realized _holy shit_ his eyes were wet.

 

“Don’t be an ass,” Tony said (somewhat hypocritically, if you asked Clint). “Bruce deserves a little happiness in his life. He shouldn’t-he shouldn’t have to give that up just because of the Hulk.”

 

“That isn’t even _close_ to the problem,” Clint spat into the phone. “And if you were half the genius you claimed to be, you’d realize that.”

 

There was another of those long pauses. Clint wished he could see the look on Tony’s face, so that he could read what was happening. He’d never had so much silence in a conversation with Tony, and it was putting him on edge.

 

“Tell me what I did wrong,” Tony said. It should have sounded sarcastic, or even angry, but Clint could tell that Tony was honestly confused. He wondered, frantically, how someone could make it to their forties and still be this bad at human interaction.

 

“Where didn’t you go wrong?” Clint was still pissed, but he tried to hide it. “You have a girlfriend. You made it look like an experiment. He thinks you hate him. You tried to kiss someone who only knows physical acts as abuse. You didn’t _ask_. You just _took_ and I swear, Tony, if all of our work with him feeling accepted on the team is ruined, I’ll shoot you.”

 

“Shit,” Tony said. Then, “Shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.” Tony sounded wounded. Clint could practically picture him, wavering in the center of the lab, surrounded by robots trying desperately to calm him. “What do I do?”

 

Clint sighed because, really, what was his life? When had he become the voice of reason? “Does Pepper know?”

 

“…No.”

 

“You’re going to leave the fucking lab and go talk to her. You’re going to tell her _everything_. Every bad decision you’ve ever made that you should have told her but didn’t. And Tony, Natasha explained all about how you tried to fucking hide your _death_ from her, so if you pull any of that shit I—”

 

“I won’t,” Tony spoke over him.

 

“Good. And if we get back, you are going to explain _very carefully_ to Bruce that he is a good person and you are the one who fucked up. He won’t want to listen, but you will explain. Got it?”

 

The silence stretched for a moment, then, “If you get back?”

 

Clint clenched his fist. He unclenched it. “Yeah. If.”

 

“All right.” Clint could hear clanging on the other end of the line, then Tony asking for the lock to be lifted on the lab. “I’m going. I’m… tell him I’m sorry?”

 

“No.” Clint pushed off the wall. “As far as Bruce is concerned, this conversation never happened. You realized your mistake all on your own.” He ended the call before Tony could respond and stood there for a moment, dazed.

 

He stared at the blank screen for a long time, until an early-riser came out of the room down the hall. He cast her a smile and went back into Bruce’s room. He shut the door silently, staring at the man’s sleeping form.

 

Bruce was back to looking tiny, all curled up under the covers. He hadn’t moved from his earlier position, and didn’t stir as Clint climbed back onto the bed. He wondered if he should reach out and touch Bruce again, if that would be the right thing to do. But he didn’t. Clint just curled up there, atop the covers, a few feet away, and hoped that was enough.

 

He watched Bruce sleep, and wondered how it had come to this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments from a road trip across Canada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess this is a multi-chapter work now. Yay! Please keep the ideas for more coming. They really inspired me to write this chapter.

Bruce slept for twenty-two hours. Clint would have let him sleep longer, but a call to assemble took the decision away from him.

 

Clint answered the call on his phone as Bruce sat up with a start, looking panicked for a moment before his features smoothed over into their usual calm. Clint frowned at the sight as Steve picked up.

 

“We’ve got hostiles in Maine. Giant crustaceans, according to Tony.”

 

“I’m still looking for Banner,” Clint said as he stared at Bruce. Bruce frowned at his words, but didn’t say anything. “Do you want me to pull out or keep up the search?”

 

Steve paused as if considering his options. “Tony thinks we need the whole team, but I’ve seen his readings. I’m disinclined to agree. I’ll call in a favor from Falcon for eyes in the sky, and let Thor handle the heavy lifting. If he still has his phone on him, Bruce might show up, but…”

 

“It’s doubtful.”

 

“Yes,” Steve said. Clint could hear the sounds of Tony talking in the background, then Steve grumbling a response. “You need to keep looking for him. Iron Man, sit down.” Steve’s voice dropped as he directed his orders to Tony, pulling away from the phone.

 

“I’ll stay on the trail,” Clint said when the bickering stopped. He wondered, fleetingly, why Tony hadn’t told the rest of the team that he’d already located Bruce. He was glad he hadn’t. “Tell Tony I’ve got everything under control, all right?”

 

“Understood. Let us know if you need an extraction.” There was a click and the line went dead.

 

Clint exited the call. As an afterthought he turned his phone completely off. He stared at the blank screen for a moment before glancing up at Bruce.

 

Bruce seemed sturdier after his long sleep, but Clint still saw the lines of sorrow and worry around his eyes. He had his hands in his lap, above the blankets, and was methodically pulling on his fingers as he observed Clint as well. They looked at each other for a long time before Clint forced himself into a more relaxed stance and pocketed his phone.

 

“All right, Doc. What’s the plan?”

 

“What’s the crisis?”

 

“Nothing the rest of the team can’t handle,” Clint said. He affected a cocksure grin and marched over to the bed. He stood on the opposite side from Bruce, conscious of giving the man space. “Steve says not to worry.”

 

“They think I’m still gone.” Bruce swung his legs off the bed and padded to the chair where his socks and shoes were. He sat and began to slip them on methodically as he spoke. “If they knew you’d already retrieved me, they would have demanded the other guy come help.”

 

“Maybe,” Clint said with a shrug. He couldn’t deny that. Bruce glanced up at him and Clint forced his smile to stay in place. “Thor can handle a little smashing.”

 

Bruce slipped one foot into a tennis shoe and began lacing it up. Clint watched him do it, entertaining himself with the thought that Bruce always seemed more like a loafer guy than an athletic shoe guy. Clint wondered if there had been a time in Bruce’s life when he didn’t have to run; when he’d felt comfortable wearing shoes without laces.

 

After he had tied both his shoes, Bruce looked up. His eyes were warm and brown, giving nothing away, not even to an former-SHIELD agent like Clint. “We need to go back,” Bruce said finally.

 

“No, we really don’t.” Clint let his smile slip, schooling his face into a more natural look. He tried to look open and approachable, no longer hiding behind his smile. “Look, maybe you want to pretend that our conversation last night didn’t happen.” He ignored Bruce’s wince. “ _But_ it did happen. I meant everything I said. So, what happens _next_ is up to you. If you want, I can take you back and you can let the other guy out to punch lobsters or whatever. Or, I can walk out and make up a lead that gets me nowhere. Your decision.”

 

Bruce leaned back in the chair and hugged his midsection. His gaze was lowered as Clint talked. “Are those my only options?” he asked.

 

“You can do whatever you want. I’ll help if I can.”

 

A tiny, self-loathing smile threatened to tug at Bruce’s lips for a moment. “What I _want_ ,” he repeated. He shook his head. “I should go back,” he said. “But it may end badly. I can’t do it right now, Clint, I’m sorry.” He glanced up briefly and looked away. “You should, however. They need your eyes.”

 

Clint shoved his hands in his pockets so as not to make fists with them. “Bruce, I’ve got a question for you, and I need you to be honest. If you were you—exactly like you in every way, only you always made selfish decisions, what would you decide? If you wanted to do something just for you and no one else, what would you do?”

 

Bruce blinked at him. Clint saw his arms tighten around his midsection before relaxing. “I’m… not sure I can answer that,” Bruce said after a moment.

 

“Try.”

 

Bruce nodded a little to himself. Slowly, he stood up. He dropped his arms to his side and stared at a midpoint on the wall behind Clint’s back. “I’d ask if you wanted to see what Russia was like this time of year.”

 

Clint smiled. It just sort of bloomed across his face. He didn’t have to force it, or draw upon his training, or take on an affected air. It just happened. He swaggered over to Bruce and resisted the urge to clap the other man on the back, instead keeping his hands in his pockets as he moved to stand beside him.

 

“I hear it’s nice,” he said conversationally. “We should go.”

 

Bruce gave him a tentative smile back, and that was that.

 

*

 

As it turned out, Bruce actually had a thing or two to teach Clint about staying under the radar.

 

Clint’s knowledge came mostly from a book and operating in the field, built upon the skills he’d gained during his brief stint in the circus, and then in the years before SHIELD picked him up. Those years were so long ago, however, that he hardly remembered them. SHIELD had immediately tried to change his habits, to fit him into the mold of a perfect agent, and it had made him forget what it was like to run without looking back.

 

For Bruce, that life was one he still lived. He kept up his skills by practicing every day.

 

The first thing they did was ditch Tony’s conspicuous car. Clint felt a little bad leaving it in the back of a junkyard two towns over, in a place where it was sure to rust and peel. Then he remembered Bruce’s face buried beneath his hands. He had to resist the urge to key the car himself.

 

Bruce had picked up his own silver Honda. It was tiny thing, without rust to make it stand out, or shine to draw people’s eyes. Bruce told him he’d bought it for five thousand dollars, cash up front, before he’d even left the states. Clint nodded, impressed, and resolved to catalogue all the places where Bruce hid his money.

 

There was the spot in the lace of his shoe, which he used to buy Clint a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt. There was a pocket sewn into the waist of his jeans, which he used to buy them enough food to make it across the rest of Canada without stopping. Then, there were dollars here and there from the toe of his shoe, the stem of his glasses, and (rather uncreatively) his actual jean pocket.

 

Clint had no idea how much money Bruce had managed to squirrel away, but he strongly suspected it was every cent the man had ever touched. It was good, however, because Clint only had a few hundreds and a SHIELD credit card (that still worked, but he was supposed to pretend it didn’t).

 

“Credit card?” Bruce asked conversationally after Clint had expressed how impressed he was by Bruce’s skills.

 

“Yeah, from SHIELD.”

 

“Can I see?”

 

Clint dug into his pants’ pocket and pulled out his wallet, trying not to swerve off the road as he did so. He kept his eyes locked to the black tar, now hazy with early-morning mist, and tossed it to Bruce.

 

He glanced over a few minutes later to see Bruce prying the credit card apart and tugging out a small piece of circuitry. Bruce bent it in between his fingers a few times, destroying it, then threw it out the window.

 

“Huh,” Clint said.

 

“Tracking device,” Bruce explained as he carefully put the two pieces of broken credit card back in Clint’s wallet. “Do you have anything else from SHIELD, Natasha, or Coulson? Or Tony? Or…” He considered. “Maybe Steve?

 

“Steve?” Clint had to ask, but then he shook his head. “I’ve… got a picture in there from Coulson, but I don’t think that would have anything in it. My bow’s from SHIELD, of course, and all the arrows were made by Tony.”

 

“Any of them that weren’t?” Bruce asked as he carefully pulled out the picture from Clint’s wallet and turned it over in his hands.

 

Clint had the photo memorized, and so he didn’t need to turn and look to know what Bruce was seeing. It was taken in a SHIELD medical bay, lights dim save for the glow of monitors. It had been years ago when his face wasn’t so grim and his hair was longer. He’d fallen asleep watching Natasha recuperate, his head on the bed near her knee. She was awake, he could tell by the line of her shoulders, but her eyes were closed as well.

 

He’d never known if Coulson had actually taken the photo himself, or if it had been taken for blackmail or bet-winning reasons. But Coulson had given it to him a few weeks later all the same. The date and time it was taken were written on the back in Coulson’s neat, blocky handwriting, and that alone would have been enough for Clint to keep it close to him.

 

“Clint?” Bruce asked after a moment.

 

Clint glanced over. “Sorry, what?”

 

“I asked if any of the arrows weren’t made by Tony.” He handed Clint back his wallet, picture included.

 

“The broad heads I get from the archery store, but the shafts and the rest are all Stark Industries.” He accepted his wallet and slipped it back into his pocket, feeling a little better knowing it was there.

 

Bruce reached into the backseat and pulled over Clint’s backpack quiver. He opened it up and exposed the rows of neat arrows and arrow heads, examining them with tightly pursed lips.

 

“Tony started implementing tracking devices in all of his weapons after Afghanistan,” he explained. Bruce began to sort the items into two piles. “Some, I can remove pretty easily. Other’s we’ll have to dump.”

 

“Tony only makes weapons for me and Nat, though.”

 

“Yes,” Bruce said, nodding a little. “But he still worries.”

 

Clint watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce took a small screwdriver to the casing of a grappling arrow. It sprung open under his hand and Bruce removed a tiny piece of metal and placed it in the cup holder. He reassembled the casing and moved onto the next.

 

“Where’d you hide the screwdriver?” Clint asked.

 

“Eyes on the road,” Bruce said, instead of a real answer.

 

Clint let him work. He felt suddenly like a junior agent again, and it embarrassed him. It was further testament to how much he trusted his team, but he hadn’t even considered the fact that Tony might be tracking his weapons. It made a certain sort of perverse sense, though. Even if Tony trusted Clint completely (which is so obviously didn’t), he couldn’t expect him to retrieve every arrow after every incident. Some were bound to fall into the wrong hands, and Tony would want to know about it.

 

When the cup holder was mostly full of bits of tracking devices, and Bruce had quarantined all of the arrow heads he couldn’t remove them from, Bruce repacked his quiver and replaced it. Clint noted that Bruce was oddly gentle with his quiver, and it made him wonder if the team really did think he knew arrows in the Biblical sense.

 

He wanted to tell Bruce he wasn’t _that_ obsessed with his arrows, but then again he was the guy who winced when Bruce picked up his bow and snapped it into firing position.

 

“Careful with that,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he meant _don’t break it_ or _don’t hurt yourself._

 

“I’m always careful.” Bruce glanced over at him. He tested the bow’s string, the way it folded and unfolded, the tenseness of the metal, before finally declaring there were no tracking devices in it at all.

 

Clint managed to hide a sigh of relief at his words.

 

Suitably de-bugged, they stopped at a little lake outside of a tiny town called Lashburn. Bruce threw the arrowheads into the lake as far as he could, and then emptied the cup holder over the water. Clint watched the metal trackers sink lazily beneath the waves. He kept his face impassive as he realized that, if Bruce truly wanted to, he could disappear again and never be found.

 

*

They didn’t take the most direct route to Russia, but then, that was the point.

 

They were driving north, into the heart of Canada and towards little airport called Yellowknife. From there they would airport hop, throwing off any remaining scent, before arriving in Naryan-Mar, Russia. The entire trip would take several days, and Clint wondered if Bruce had done that on purpose to give both of them time to change their minds.

 

He wasn’t planning on going back unless Bruce did, however. He wanted to say as much, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he kept mostly silent as he and Bruce switched shifts every few hours. They alternated driving and resting as they moved up the length of barren highway, surrounded on all sides by trees and lakes and greenery.

 

It was kind of pretty, and Clint found himself admiring the view. At least, until he started getting antsy.

 

It started with drumming his fingers. He tapped them against the steering wheel until he was driving himself mad. Then, he moved on to jiggling his leg, moving it fast with the internal beat of his own heart. When that wasn’t enough to distract him he became more restless. He slouched, he sat up, he crossed his legs and arms, then uncrossed them. He titled his head and cracked his neck. He fiddled with the radio, and then went back to drumming a beat in time with the song that was on.

 

It was around hour twelve when Bruce pulled down a deserted side road and announced they would be stretching their legs. Clint had his door open before the car came to a complete stop, but he still waited for Bruce to kill the engine and step out before he did. He didn’t want to let Bruce get cold feet and drive off without him.

 

As soon as he felt dirt beneath his boots, he felt instantly better. He sighed and threw his arms above his head, stretching. His vertebra popped and cracked as he did so, and his shoulders shrieked in complaint.

 

“You know, it’s funny,” he said as he stretched. He glanced over his shoulder at Bruce, who was staring at him intently, looking like he was debating between fight or flight. Clint managed a smile at him.

 

Bruce seemed to realize he was staring, because his gaze lowered and his entire posture relaxed artificially. Clint had a sudden thought that Bruce could have been a good agent, in another life. “What is?” Bruce asked, calm as could be.

 

“I can stay still for _days_ on an op. Just sitting there, not doing anything and it wouldn’t bother me. I can even be at attention for hours.” He mimed drawing a bow string back, an imaginary arrow nocked. He aimed his ghost arrow at the car’s front tire. Even just pretending to draw felt more comfortable, more right, than sitting had. “But put me in one spot without a mission, and I go a little stir crazy.”

 

Clint released his imaginary arrow, and knew that it flew true into the center of the tire. He smirked a little to himself.

 

“I suppose I’m used to it,” Bruce said. He still stretched his arms and legs a bit as he spoke. Clint wondered if he was doing it to make him feel less awkward for being so jittery, or if Bruce had convinced himself he needed to do it for medical reasons. “Sometimes sitting still is all you can do.”

 

Clint frowned at that, but didn’t ask. He walked around the car a few times, and then broke out into a run.

 

He circled the car a few dozen times, until his breath was just beginning to quicken. Bruce leaned against the front fender, arms crossed over his chest, watching him with faint amusement as he ran. Clint couldn’t help but offer him a little salute as he passed, and Bruce rolled his eyes.

 

“You know,” Bruce began when Clint finally stopped and moved to stand beside Bruce against the car. “They’re probably worried about you.”

 

“Nat’s not,” he said, as if her opinion was the only one that mattered. He tapped a finger against the phone in his pocket, and wondered why Bruce hadn’t asked to examine it for trackers. He slid his gaze over to Bruce. “The rest will get over it.”

 

“Mm,” Bruce hummed noncommittally. “You not answering your phone probably has them scared.”

 

Clint shrugged. He leaned back against the car next to Bruce, making sure to keep a healthy, comfortable distance between the two of them. Even though Bruce could act unaffected by physical contact, Clint knew better now. “Like I said, they’ll get over it. Nat knows there’s no way I’m dead.” He tried to choose his next words carefully. “Tony’ll probably coming looking and find the car, maybe even figure it out. It’s no big deal.”

 

Bruce glanced away from him, and for a moment Clint thought he’d said something wrong. But Bruce gave a ghost of a smile. “Can you imagine Steve’s lecture, though?”

 

“Oh, God,” Clint laughed. “I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it. He takes the team-mom thing very seriously.”

 

Bruce turned his head back, and Clint saw a glint in his eyes. “Clinton,” Bruce said, suddenly sounding like a perfect imitation of full-on Captain America. “It’s past your curfew. I expected you hours ago. Now I find you’ve been out partying with your miscreant friends? I’m very disappointed in you, young man. You’re grounded for a month.”

 

Clint burst out laughing. He affected his own imitation. It wasn’t as good as Bruce’s, but it still got the man to almost-smile. “And you, Dr. Banner, hanging out with a bad influence like Barton. You know he’s a very misguided boy. No desert for you tonight. Oh, all right, just one cookie.”

 

Bruce’s nose wrinkled a little. For a split second, Clint thought Bruce might actually laugh, and the very idea made his own smile brighten. Only, Bruce didn’t laugh. He just let out a huff of air and glanced away again, hunching his shoulders a little more. “That’s probably exactly what he would do,” Bruce said, and suddenly he was modest Dr. Banner again.

 

Clint let himself keep smiling. The moment didn’t exactly end. It just faded a bit, became more weathered along the edges, and the two of them climbed back into the car a while later and continued on their journey. The road stretched on before them, and Bruce turned the radio to a static-filled classical station. Clint gazed out the window at the stars for a long time, until the softness and quiet lulled him into an easy sleep.

 

*

 

“Any more of that trail mix?” Clint asked. He forced himself to stop drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Only one more hour until the airport. He could do this.

 

“No, ah…” Bruce sat up sharply at his words. Clint frowned and glanced over at him. Bruce had gone from zero to complete hand-wringing mess in the space of a second. “Sorry, I had the last bite.”

 

“That’s fine.” Clint tried not to let Bruce’s sudden hand wringing affect him, knowing it would show in his voice and Bruce would take it the wrong way. “I’m glad it didn’t go to waste. What about the jerky?”

 

“There is some of that.” Bruce dug around in the backseat and then meekly offered Clint the bag.

 

Clint snatched it up, never taking his eyes off the road. He could feel himself going crazy from a lack of activity. They’d been driving for nearly a full day now, and it was almost too much for him to handle. “I’ve just got the bored-munchies,” he said, and crammed a piece of jerky into his mouth.

 

Bruce settled back into the passenger’s seat. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, sounding more amused than sorry. Clint wondered if he could look and see Bruce smiling, but he was afraid to turn his head and risk seeing Bruce still looking hurt.

 

“S’not my fault,” Clint slurred around a mouthful of jerky. He could tell he was being disgusting, but the jerky was chewy, and really was helping to distract from his boredom. Talking helped more, though. “If I had a mission this would be easier. Bruce, you should give me a mission. Something big and flashy with lots of spy work and espionage.”

 

“Hmm,” Bruce hummed to himself. “You said that yesterday, too. But aren’t you already on a mission?”

 

Clint couldn’t help but look over then, frowning around his mouthful of jerky. He saw Bruce gazing at him coolly, the very picture of a man with no worries. It instantly put Clint on high alert. “What mission would I be on?”

 

“Retrieving me.”

 

“What?” Clint had to pause then, and actually finish chewing and swallowing. He looked back to the road. “That’s not a mission.”

 

“What would you call it, then?” Bruce still sounded calm and cool, and it was really setting Clint’s teeth on edge.

 

“Helping out a friend,” Clint said instantly. He could feel Bruce startle at his words, even though he wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t come get you because SHIELD or Cap ordered me to. That’s what a mission is. A mission is orders that mean you don’t have to think. Don’t have to feel for yourself. You just do what they say. Get in and get out. Fire when they say fire, jump when they say jump. Real life’s messier than that. Guess that’s what makes me anxious.”

 

Bruce was silent for a long time. Clint fought the urge to look over, wondering what he would see. He couldn’t wait forever, though, and he eventually tore his eyes from the road and glanced at Bruce. He clenched the steering wheel a little tighter at what he saw.

 

He had that look on his face again. The one he got when there was a problem in the lab. The one he’d had when Clint said he was loved. Bruce was suddenly puzzled and drawn in on himself, trying to work out how Clint’s words fit into his worldview.

 

“Eyes on the road,” Bruce breathed.

 

Clint turned away, and watched threes rush by. It was both better and worse. Better, because then he didn’t have to remember the last time he’d seen that look of confusion. Worse, because then he couldn’t look at Bruce anymore. He couldn’t see what the other man was thinking.

 

“I come get you because I want to,” Clint said eventually. “And I always thought you wanted that, too.” He clenched his jaw, squeezed the steering wheel, and tried to decide if he’d just said something incredibly stupid. He figured he had, because Bruce didn’t say anything for a long time.

 

But then he heard Bruce let out a long, slow breath and whisper, “Thanks.”

 

It was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys may notice that I added a first part to this series that is Bruce Banner/Erik Selvig (of all the things). You should read it! There will be references to it in this fic and in the third part (which I am already writing and posting, because it totally makes sense to post the sequel before the middle bit is done).

Of course, Clint could teach Bruce a thing or two about running as well.

 

Like, no matter how small the town, there was always someone who could get you a fake passport. He just had to find them.

 

Clint perched atop the highest building, easily observing the ebb and flow of city life. The people bustled to and fro, lazy for such an early morning. He didn’t mind, though. It meant he could keep an eye on Bruce at the coffee shop across the street without any difficulty.

 

Bruce had seated himself at a small table by the window, observing the city as well. He knew were Clint was, but was good enough not to look up at him constantly. Clint liked that about Bruce. He worked well undercover. He watched Bruce take a sip of his tea with three fingers splayed upwards.

 

 _Three minutes, then we move on_.

 

Clint had no real way to acknowledge, but he still nodded his head to himself. He was on a mission, now, and could have sat still on the rooftop for days if he had to. But Bruce was getting antsy. So he had three minutes to find someone, or Bruce would implement plan B.

 

(Plan B involved cargo holds and smooth talking. Clint didn’t like plan B.)

 

He scanned the pedestrians. Most of them were business types hurrying to work, but some stood out. There was a panhandler on the corner, then the woman giving him change. A taxi cab driver who was clearly still drunk from the night before. A beat cop chatting to a florist. He saw a mother pushing her baby in a stroller, and noted the man beside her had a gun hidden under his jacket. He shook his head at the sight. Even in Canada…

 

Clint dashed to the side of the building and swung over, climbing down the emergency escape as quickly as possible. He landed with a rush of air and strolled out of the alley way. The man and woman were now at the end of the street, giving him just enough time to pass by the coffee shop window.

 

He didn’t turn to see if Bruce would be able to catch up with him. He trusted him. He kept his gait loose and relaxed, just another worker on his way to a cubicle. The woman paused at the corner and stretched up to kiss the man on the cheek. The man stood still as she did so, then watched her walk away.

 

“How was the tea?” he asked as he heard Bruce’s footsteps approach.

 

Bruce faltered, and then took a few more steps to catch up. The two of them strolled by the man with a gun and kept walking down the street. “It was nice. They didn’t over-steep it, which is unusual in the West.” Bruce fell easily into step with Clint.

 

“Great. Maybe we can come back later and I can try some.” Clint stopped to look through a shop window, watching the gun-toting man in the reflection.

 

“You don’t even like tea.” Bruce stood beside him, hands clasped together in front of him.

 

The gun-toting man began to move, and Clint took a moment to calculate where he was going. “Nah, but life’s all about trying new things.” Clint shrugged a little and they followed the man. “What was in it? Cinnamon?”

 

“Allspice,” Bruce corrected. “Unusual for tea, but very good.”

 

They followed the man for several blocks, exchanging light banter along the way. To an outsider it would appear as though they were merely two friends on a stroll—and indeed, for the most part they were. Only, two friends probably wouldn’t have let themselves be led into a bad part of town while following a man with a gun. Clint’s boots were sticking to the ground, the smell of trash assaulted him. He hated how easy it was to stereotype, but as soon as the number of panhandlers doubled, then were suddenly reduced to zero, he knew they were in the right place.

 

“Alleyway, one block,” Clint said in the same tone he’d been using to describe why coffee was the superior drink. “I’ll lead him in, you hang back.”

 

“Got it.” Bruce turned to look at him, his face a calm cool mask.

 

Clint offered him a smile back, hoping to crack the mask but destined to be disappointed. He tugged his collar a little tighter around his neck and quickened his pace.

 

“’Scuse me!” he called out, waving his a hand. The man startled and turned to look at him incredulously. “Sorry, sorry,” Clint said. “My friend and I are a little lost. Wondering if you can give us directions?”

 

The man stopped fully and swept his gaze over the city as if cataloguing what he knew. Clint took advantage, stepping into the man’s space and giving him a quick shove into the alleyway.

 

“Hey!” The man tried to shove back, but Clint was already on top of him. It was laughably easy to grab him by the neck and lift him off his feet, divesting him of his gun before he even had time to draw.

 

“Hey yourself,” Clint said cheerfully. He tucked them into the back corner of the alley, out of sight and mind. He saw Bruce take up a post at the alley entrance, leaning easily against the wall. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”

 

“Fuck you.” The man struggled in his grip, his voice coming out raspy as Clint held him aloft.

 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Completely unoriginal.” He spun the gun in his fingertips. “Now. You’re going to tell me everything I need to know about getting a passport out of this country.”

 

The man put up a bit of a fight, but Clint didn’t even have to do more than threaten to hit him to get him to spill. He just tightened his grip against his throat and pressed him a little harder into the brick, and learned all about rumors of underground human trafficking in the city. He was actually a little glad that his intuition had paid off. It would have been embarrassing if the man hadn’t known anything after all. Trafficking wasn’t exactly what he’d expected, but it meant they would have access to all the equipment they needed.

 

“You’ve been very helpful, thank you,” Clint told the man honestly. He shrugged off the vicious look he got in response. He tucked the gun into the waist of his pants and reached into his bag to pull out a net arrow.

 

“Hey, what the hell?” The man asked hoarsely as Clint pressed the tip of the arrow against his chest.

 

“Won’t hurt a bit,” he promised, and depressed the arrow. The net sprung out and quickly encapsulated the man. Clint dropped him to the ground. “I’ll just leave you here to reconsider your career choices. And I’m keeping this.” He tapped the gun at his waist. “Go home to your sister. She needs help with her new baby.”

 

The man’s eyes widened. He tried to twist out of the net, flailing helplessly on the ground. “How’d you…?”

 

Clint just gave him a little smirk and turned to stroll back out of the alley. Or, try to, anyway, because when he caught sight of Bruce he froze.

 

He had actually forgotten Bruce was there, which was both bad and good. Bad, because Bruce could have left and he wouldn’t have noticed. Good, because it meant he trusted Bruce enough to have his back without second guessing him. The look on Bruce’s face quickly reminded him though, especially when he realized _oh shit_ he had just roughed up a guy in an alley right in front of Bruce, who practically got beat up for a living.

 

Bruce’s face was almost as calm and cool as his earlier mask, but now Clint could see how the edges didn’t quite come together. It was like there was a seam on his mask which let darkness flow out, exposing Bruce’s true feelings for Clint and Clint alone to see.

 

He was scared again. Of Clint.

 

Clint managed a smile and quickly ordered his feet to keep moving. “I think the lead’s good,” he said as they walked back onto the street. “The street he named is back where we parked the car, which is nice. Less of a walk.”

 

“Mm,” Bruce hummed, but didn’t look at him. “You’re just going to leave him in the alley?”

 

“I’ll place an anonymous call once we’re out of here,” Clint reassured him. He tried to read Bruce, but could only see half the story from Bruce’s profile. “It’s a warm day; he’ll be fine.”

 

Bruce stared straight ahead for a long moment as they walked. Clint ran through the variables, trying to decide the best thing he could say in a situation like this. He could have said _It’s just a mission_ , but that sounded worse than saying nothing. He thought about saying _I’d never do that to you_ , but that sounded hollow. He could say _That guy was scum_ or _We got our intel_ or even _I didn’t actually hit him_ , but it was all so false.

 

In the end, he didn’t say anything at all.

 

“He mentioned trafficking?” Bruce asked as the silence stretched.

 

“Yeah.” Clint looked at him. He could see a fire burning in Bruce’s eyes, something he didn’t try and hide behind a façade. Clint grinned a little. “Why, you want to save the world?”

 

“Yes.” Bruce turned to look at him, and the sudden fire hit Clint full force. He looked angry, then, not scared or nervous or hurt. Clint wondered if this was all it took for Bruce to keep his anger burning all the time. If Bruce just had to step outside and find the nearest thug to fan the flames.

 

“Okay,” Clint nodded back, trying desperately not to get swept up in the heat. It made him angry, too, but he was more removed. Less affected. Probably less of a good person than Bruce. Clint might say that Ghandi could learn something from Bruce’s look. He felt if he got caught up in the raging fire behind Bruce’s eyes he might never be whole again.

 

“Let’s go then.”

 

*

 

Come to find out, infiltrating a human trafficking ring in a tiny North Canadian town was almost as laughably easy as holding up a two-bit thug in an alley.

 

Clint figured maybe he was just spoiled. Not every organization could have the resources of the Ten Rings, or the blind adulation of Hydra, or the technology of AIM. Some had to work out of the basement of a middle-aged white man and his mom.

 

They probably didn’t even have a _name_ , he thought as he tranquilized said-mother and took out her son with a bow-slap to the face. The man went down like a ton of bricks and immediately the dozen women in the room began screaming at him in mixes of Russian and English.

 

“All clear,” he called over his shoulder. He turned to watch Bruce push open the door and begin dragging in unconscious guards.

 

“This is it?” Bruce asked, surveying the panicking women and stoic Clint as he piled bodies in the corner. “I expected more.”

 

“What can you do?” Clint shrugged. He addressed the woman nearest him—eldest by a long shot, but not a day over twenty-five. He tried to remember everything Nat had ever said to him in Russian. “ _Miss, I need you to get everyone under control. We are breaking you out. Freeing you.”_ His Russian was faulty and clumsy, but she seemed to understand.

 

Bruce pulled out a disposable camera and began taking pictures of everything. He snapped a photo of the trafficker’s face, another of a bloody shoe. He took a series of photos of the mold on the walls, the dripping water, and then bruises. Clint noticed he asked each woman before he took a picture of her, and he was so quiet and unassuming that they all agreed despite the chaos.

 

“There must be a reason this ring hasn’t been broken up,” Bruce said as he took a picture of a hand-shaped bruise on one woman’s leg. “Maybe the police can’t make a move for lack of evidence, or they’re being paid off. Either way, photos can’t be ignored.”

 

“We should just deliver them directly to the station.” Clint nudged one unconscious man with the toe of his boot.

 

“There are a lot of things we should do.”

 

Clint glanced up sharply, noting the thin line of Bruce’s mouth and the tense in his shoulders. He could see his nostrils flaring with each breath, and could practically hear Bruce counting to himself—his pulse, quick but below Hulk-out, and his breathing, slow and steady and calming. Clint wasn’t worried, but he could tell exactly what Bruce wanted to do instead of taking pictures.

 

“All right, ladies, time to leave.” He pulled the eldest aside again and gave her directions to the local women’s shelter, then the contents of his wallet. She took it without question and left before he could say anything else.

 

When they were alone in the room—save for the steady breathing of unconscious henchmen—Clint swaggered over to where Bruce was standing. The other man was swaying slightly, like a leaf in the wind. Clint wondered what Coulson would have said in a situation like this. He probably would have done more than stand there dumbly, which was all Clint could think to do.

 

“I don’t like the smell of this place,” Bruce said finally.

 

Clint couldn’t help but take a deeper breath, cataloguing the scents in the room. Most of it was mold and rot, the wet dankness of basement life. But underneath that he could sense what Bruce was talking about. The slight acrid tinge of blood, metallic and sharp. The smell of sweat and urine and worse, all together from such a tight living space. And then, beneath it all, so deep that Clint wouldn’t have found it if Bruce hadn’t pointed it out, was the smell of sex.

 

Clint retched a little, almost imperceptivity. It was a mission, after all. He couldn’t show weakness on a mission.

 

“Let’s just get out of here, then,” he said. “We still need to find where they’re keeping legal document things.”

 

Bruce nodded, once, and his face smoothed over into that cool impassivity again.

 

(They found the piece-of-shit printer easily enough, and Clint became Doug Wakefield. He never liked the name _Doug_ , but figured he could live with it, since his complaining got Bruce to drop his mask and give that almost-smile again.)

 

*

 

Bruce was astonishingly good at faking laughter.

 

Clint was actually stunned into silence as he watched Bruce _laugh_ at a _joke_. It wasn’t even a _good_ joke, but Bruce still laughed. It was sweet and easy and pleasant, and the woman behind the ticket counter smiled back beatifically at Bruce, happy that he’d gotten her joke. Clint tried to recall all the times he’d seen Bruce laugh. The list was short, maybe a half-dozen instances, most of which had all been self-deprecating. Bruce didn’t have fun. He didn’t laugh when he liked a joke. He only laughed at himself in that vindictive way that sometimes made Clint feel a little ill.

 

But here he was. Laughing.

 

Bruce handed the woman a few bills—a mix of United States and Canadian dollars—and leaned against the counter with practiced ease. Clint stood across the room with his hands in his pockets, calmly surveying the tiny airport and Bruce chatting up the woman.

 

Because that was definitely what he was doing. He was chatting her up. Bruce was practically _flirting_ with her, and it was just so bizarre that Clint honestly thought he was losing his mind. He watched Bruce compliment her hair with a smirk, and her reach up to brush a strand from her eyes with an answering smile.

 

He’d known that Bruce was good at undercover work, but not _this_ good. In the SHIELD handbook for undercover operations, on page ninety-seven, it explained that the best way to hide was to become someone else. Clint wondered if Bruce had read that book, or if he’d figured this out all on his own.

 

Bruce accepted his tickets with a broad smile and a wave of his fingertips and strutted ( _strutted!_ ) back over to where Clint was standing. Clint managed not to gape at him, but it was a near thing.

 

“Sorry about that,” Bruce said as he handed Clint his ticket. His body language didn’t change—to an outsider he would still appear to be the charismatic _David Roberts_ —but Clint saw the mask shudder into place. Bruce glanced up at him meekly.

 

Clint grinned at him and snatched up his ticket. “Why’re you apologizing? I didn’t know you were such a ladies’ man.”

 

“I’m really not.” Bruce shook his head at the very idea. His voice was small and wary, but his shoulders were still set solidly.

 

It was a bit disconcerting for Clint to see the difference between the real Bruce and his persona standing there in stark contrast. He had a brief moment to consider which parts were real, and which parts were assumed. Then he wondered if any of it was real at all and dove a bit too deep down the rabbit hole and had to yank himself out.

 

“Seemed that way from where I was standing.”

 

“Mm,” Bruce hummed and shrugged. “I suppose I picked up a few things living with—living at the Tower.”

 

Clint caught the stutter, but he didn’t comment. He watched Bruce dig into his bag for a moment, examining the loose line of his shoulders and the little smile still on his lips. It was a good look on Bruce, and Clint hoped that someday Bruce could look like that without it being artificial. He had the sudden urge to pull Bruce into a hug and tell him everything would be all right—but that would make it all _worse_ , and so he didn’t.

 

“Here, put this in your bag.” Bruce drew forth a tiny piece of metal and pressed it into Clint’s hands.

 

“What’s it do?” Clint asked as he moved to obey. He shoved it deep into his bag, past arrow shafts and fletching.

 

“It will mask your weapons to the security scanners. When they x-ray it will appear that your bag is full of clothing.” Bruce titled his head a little to one side. “How did you think we’d be getting your bow past them?”

 

“Figured we’d just have to dump it.” Clint shrugged and shouldered his bag again.

 

Bruce looked stricken for a moment before his face smoothed over again. “I would never ask you to do that, Clint. I already had to ruin too many of your arrows.”

 

Clint tightened his hold on his bag, suddenly thrown into a tailspin. Bruce’s look confused him. For a split second Bruce had almost seemed traumatized by the very idea. “You know,” he said slowly, carefully. “I’m not that obsessed with my bow. I mean, she’s a pretty lady but she’s really not my type. I prefer to date things that are animated.”

 

Bruce’s nose crinkled again and then—because they were in an airport surrounded by people who only knew him as David, the man who laughs at bad jokes—Bruce actually let out a chuckle. It made Clint break into a smile of his own, an automatic response to Bruce’s cheerfulness. “Just _things_?” Bruce asked with a sparkle in his eye.

 

“Well, you know me.” Clint shrugged. He could feel his lips threatening to part, a laugh trying to force its way out. “I’m easy to please. Remember that huge orange thing we fought last May?”

 

“…You mean Grogg?”

 

“Yeah! Now there’s someone who’s animated. I would date that. We could catch a movie. I'll steal car from Tony that has a top that can go down, so that Grogg will fit. I bet Grogg would appreciate my cooking. See, my bow never does. Won’t eat anything I try to feed it.”

 

Bruce was definitely laughing now, his shoulders shaking with contained energy. It was so strange that being in public brought out that inner-Bruce _more_ than a private car ride had, but Clint was totally not complaining. Bruce swiped a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away the mental image. “Grogg is a hundred-foot tall, scaly monster that breathes fire. You really want to date that?”

 

“But!” Clint pointed at him, arching an eyebrow and marveling at how Bruce cracked up again. “He’s not inanimate, which puts him above my bow on the list of attractive things.”

 

“Oh, God.” Bruce just shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it. Why did you put that horrible image in my brain?”

 

“You’re saying I shouldn’t bring Grogg home to meet Mama America?”

 

“No.” Bruce laughed again and seemed to calm himself. He took a deep, steadying breath. “All right, I get it. You’re not sleeping with your bow.” Bruce bit his lip to hold back another laugh, and then looked away from Clint. His bright eyes searched the floor for answers before steeling, and he glanced back. “Let’s see if we can make it through security, anyway.”

 

Clint followed him across the room, feeling a little lighter than before.


	4. Chapter 4

Russia was not nice this time of year.

 

In fact, Russia was fucking cold. That was pretty much Clint’s only thought as the trudged out of the airport and into what could reasonably be described as a snowy wonderland. He also thought things like _brr_ and _this sucks_ as he watched Bruce turn his face up to the sky and let a few snowflakes fall on his eyelashes.

 

Well, it couldn’t be all bad. At least Bruce was happy.

 

Clint yanked his jacket more snugly around his neck and hunched over against the biting wind. It was cold, and he was annoyed, and his entire body was a hum of pent-up energy from the long plane ride. He wanted to take off running. He wanted to climb the nearest building and look out over the city. He wanted to be safe at home, warm in his bed. He wanted to know what Bruce was getting out of all this.

 

“What’s the plan now, Doc?”

 

Bruce turned around, rubbing his mitten-clothed hands together a little guiltily. “Well,” he said slowly, as if he tasted the words and had found them bitter. “We’ve seen Russia now. I suppose you’ll be taking me back.”

 

Clint blinked at him. He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jacket so that Bruce couldn’t see the fists he was making. “Is that what you want?” He felt sick. It was the hotel in Saskatchewan all over again as Bruce glanced around and wrung his hands together.

 

“That’s what we should—”

 

“Is that what you _want_ , Bruce?” Clint stepped forward, into Bruce’s personal space, and Bruce startled away a bit. Clint didn’t reach out to him, didn’t even pull his hands from his pockets. He didn’t want to appear threatening, but he knew that to Bruce it wouldn’t matter much anyway.

 

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, sweeping his gaze over Clint’s determined face and squared shoulders. Finally, he looked away. Clint watched him examine the bustling city life all around them. They were the only ones standing still in a sea of people and noise. Clint could seem him itching to run, the only thing holding him there some misguided sense of responsibility.

 

“Bruce,” Clint said, softer than before. “Just tell me what you want.” He searched the man’s profile for something, anything to hold on to, but he was unreadable.

 

Bruce was watching a child near the end of the street reaching up her little hands to her father when he said, “Call the Avengers.”

 

“Tony will track the call the second I make it.”

 

“Fine.” Bruce let out a long sigh and pulled off his backpack, tugging it open and looking through. Clint wanted to lean forward and glance inside, but he refrained. Bruce pulled out a little stick—it looked like a stylus, and was studded with tiny unlit lights. Clint could see a micro-USB port on the side. “This will prevent him from tracking it. Now will you please call them?”

 

“Where’d you get this?” Clint accepted the device and plugged it into his phone before powering it up. He watched the screen come to life, displaying dozens of missed calls and messages. He didn’t look at them, but he didn’t delete them either.

 

Bruce turned on his heel and began to walk away. Clint followed him. “I made it,” Bruce said simply, once they were out of the thickest portion of the crowd. “You’ll have about five minutes before they figure out how to bypass it.”

 

“Okay.” Clint thumbed through his contacts and pulled up the Avengers line. “What do you want me to say?”

 

Bruce wasn’t looking at him, but Clint could see he was listening closely by the way his head was turned. “Make sure they’re okay,” Bruce mumbled. They ducked into a little alleyway and Bruce leaned against the stone wall.

 

The phone rang only one time. Clint wasn’t sure who he had expected to pick up, but it definitely wasn’t Sam Wilson.

 

“Avengers,” Sam said. “Emergency?”

 

“Hey, Falcon,” Clint said back, plastering a smile on his face that he hoped would come through in his voice. “No emergency. Just wondering what you were up to.”

 

Clint could hear a chaotic sound on the other end of the line, like something being thrown. He barely heard Sam’s confused “Hawkeye?” before Tony was on the line.

 

“Barton you get your ass back here right now. Don’t make me come over there.”

 

“Oh, and where’s here?” Clint smirked at the silence that reigned over that statement. “You can’t track this phone, Tony.” His smirk died as Bruce’s shoulders tensed at the name. “This is a courtesy call. What’s your status?”

 

“Our status is _shut up_ and you practically made Captain America cry, you asshole.” He could hear Tony seething over the phone. He could practically see Tony’s hands flying over keyboards, desperately trying to track the signal. Somewhere in the background he heard Sam placing another call, speaking in low tones to Steve.

 

“Really?” Clint asked dryly. “Well that’s on you, Stark.”

 

Whatever Tony’s response was to that was lost as Bruce whirled around at his words. Bruce’s hand shot out, and Clint barely had time to tense before Bruce grabbed the wrist holding his phone and _glared_.

 

“Don’t tell him that,” Bruce demanded. “Don’t tell him it’s his fault when it’s not.”

 

“Is that Bruce?” Tony asked over the phone. Clint would have rolled his eyes at how hopeful he sounded, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stare back at Bruce, at the intensity in his eyes. “Let me talk to him, Barton.”

 

“Bruce,” Clint said carefully. He felt Bruce’s hand tighten around his wrist. It was painful, his bones grating together. He ignored Tony’s voice in his ear. “This is his fault.”

 

There was a sudden, reigning silence. He heard Tony choking in a breath over the phone, saw Bruce press his lips into a thin line. Then Bruce dropped his wrist like Clint had physically burned him and took a step back, burying his head in his hands.

 

 _Shit_. “Tony, tell me that the team is safe,” Clint whispered.

 

“Fuck you,” Tony said weakly. But then, “We’re all safe. There’s no crisis.”

 

“Good.” He took a step towards Bruce, who tried to disappear into the wall behind him. “Tony, I don’t have much time. So I’ll just say that ‘if’ has now become ‘when.’”

 

“What the hell does that—”

 

Clint turned off his phone with a decisive click. He watched Bruce angle his body away, hiding behind still hands as Clint walked towards him. His boots crunched in the snow, and Bruce winced with each footfall.

 

“Why would you tell him that?” Bruce asked suddenly. His voice was soft and calm, a sharp contrast to his hunched shoulders and hidden face. Bruce was an exercise in contradiction, and it pained Clint. “Why would you say that to him?”

 

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Clint said, because he wasn’t exactly sure what else to do. His fingers itched to pull the other man in and comfort him, but he needed to ask. “Is it all right if I—”

 

Bruce cut him off, thrusting out his arm, wrist turned upwards to the sky. He was still hiding behind his other hand as he held out his arm like he’d read Clint’s mind. “Yes,” he said. “It’s okay.”

 

Clint closed the gap between them and carefully raised his own hand. He found the place that Bruce had pointed to so long ago and gently rested his fingers there. They wavered there for a moment before Bruce lowered his arm, Clint following after him. Clint leaned against the wall beside him, searching his face, their only point of contact his hand on Bruce’s arm.

 

“Is this okay?” Clint asked as Bruce slowly relaxed.

 

“Yes.”

 

They stood there for a long moment, until Bruce’s shoulders were covered in snowflakes and Clint was well and truly cold again. He could feel his toes growing numb and he flexed them, but didn’t move. Eventually, as if he’d simply gotten too tired to keep it up, Bruce dropped his other hand from his face and turned to look down at where Clint was holding him.

 

“Sorry I suck at this,” Clint murmured.

 

Bruce just stared at his hand like it was an alien thing again. Dazedly, like he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, he reached down and pushed aside Clint’s sleeve. Clint looked and saw the faintest hint of red where Bruce had gripped his arm. It would definitely bruise.

 

“I did that,” Bruce said blankly. “How could I do that?”

 

“I’ve had worse,” Clint said, an echo of that night, and he meant it. “It’s no big deal.”

 

Bruce didn’t shy away, but Clint could tell he wanted to. He watched Bruce take a long, slow breath, and then let it out. “You asked what I wanted,” he said to Clint’s hand on his arm. “But I don’t know. Tell me what you want.”

 

Clint tightened his grip on Bruce. He hoped it was a comforting gesture. “This is fine with me,” he said. “Although…” He glanced around, blinking snowflakes from his eyes. “It is a little cold. Should we find a place to sleep?”

 

For just a split second—so fast Cling almost thought he missed it, but he was Hawkeye who saw everything—Bruce had that look of confusion on his face again. He didn’t know what to make of Clint, of his friendship, of kindness. But then he glanced up and nodded. He slipped his arm from Clint’s grasp easily enough and headed towards the street.

 

“All right, lead the way.”

 

*

 

(Bruce paid for their room with a bill from a pocket in the sleeve of his shirt, and Clint added another check mark to his catalogue of hidden money.)

 

*

 

Bruce was good at faking, but when he broke down he _really_ broke down.

 

Clint was too distracted by how cold he was to really notice what was coming as he slipped off his boots and ran a hand over his frozen toes with a hiss. He yanked off his wet over clothes and collapsed face-down on the motel bed with a deep sigh. He pressed his face into the covers, enjoying the way his backache magically righted itself under the presence of such a comfortable mattress. He lay there until he felt the bed dip as Bruce climbed up beside him.

 

He turned his head to look at Bruce, who was pressed against the headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was on the far edge of the bed, as if he was afraid to startle Clint (which was just ironic, really). But he could have taken up residence in the other bed if he’d wanted, which told Clint he was hoping for human contact.

 

Clint wriggled his way into a half-sitting position as well and slipped his feet under the covers. He was slowly starting to warm, his toes tingling with restored feeling. He waited for Bruce to talk first, convinced that anything Clint could say would ruin their delicate balance. He tried to tell himself to treat this like a mission, but as soon as his leg began to jiggle with pent-up energy he knew it was a lost cause.

 

“Are we still pretending Saskatchewan never happened?” Bruce asked after a while, looking blankly ahead at the wall.

 

“I was never pretending that, so no.” Clint shrugged. He wondered if Bruce viewed his life as a series of incidents. The Culver Incident. The Rocinha Incident. The Harlem Incident. The Saskatchewan Almost-Incident.

 

Bruce let out another of those self-deprecating laughs. It made Clint tense, the band of sickness coiling in his gut suddenly. “I should apologize,” Bruce said eventually, and his tone made Clint clench his fists again. “I only said those things because I was tired.”

 

Clint stared at the side of Bruce’s face, willing him to turn and look. But he didn’t. “Well, I wasn’t tired. Everything I said, I meant.” He watched as Bruce drew his forehead together as he considered Clint’s words carefully.

 

“I’m not homophobic.”

 

Whatever Clint had thought Bruce would say, that wasn’t it. He opened his mouth blankly and said, “Huh.”

 

Bruce cast him a worried look, his eyebrows still knitted together. “Are you?”

 

“No?” And why the hell was he answering like there was any question? He knew he wasn’t. “No,” he said again, more firmly.

 

“Good.” Bruce relaxed noticeably. “The Other Guy, he sometimes comes out if…” He twisted his hand in the air in a motion that somehow perfectly informed Clint that he meant _hate crimes_.

 

“Huh,” Clint said again, entertaining himself with the mental image of the Hulk bursting out in front of gay bashers. But then, wait, “Did you think I was?”

 

“I didn’t know.” Bruce shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his knees again. He was back to wall-gazing. “I just—I was just worried that’s what Tony thinks of me.”

 

“I’d be pretty hypocritical if I were.” Clint folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, counting the popcorns there. “But you wouldn’t be homophobic for that, since Stark has all kinds of relationships. Bi-phobic, maybe? I hate the term _phobic_ , anyway.”

 

He could feel Bruce staring at him again, and he ran through the conversation and realized, hey, he’d just kind of come out of the closet. “I’m sorry, Clint.”

 

Clint turned again to look at him, locking their eyes together. Clint could feel the incredulous look on his face. “Why are you sorry?”

 

“I-I didn’t know.” Bruce began to twist his hands together again. “I’m not very, very observant. Was I supposed to know? Do you want me to keep it a secret?”

 

“Jesus, don’t apologize.” He kept very still as Bruce fretted over his perceived-mistake. “It’s not a big deal.” He felt like he was saying that a lot to Bruce. “Not like I get a lot of time to date in my line of work.”

 

Bruce clutched his hands together, and then forcibly relaxed his hold on himself. He was still just staring down at Clint, trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle. “I’m sorry,” he said again even though Clint had _just said_ —“I just assumed that since you were with Natasha...”

 

That startled a laugh out of Clint. “Wow, uh,” he managed. He saw the look on Bruce’s face again—that rapid closing off—and he sat up a little straighter. “Nah, that’s fine. I do love her, but not that kind of love. We’re platonic life-mates, maybe. Maybe there’s some parallel universe where she and I kiss all the time. There’s probably an equally ridiculous universe where she’s in Hydra and I’m double-crossing SHIELD.”

 

Bruce almost-smiled at that. “Unlikely,” he said. “I can’t imagine her in a Hydra uniform.”

 

“Yeah, the colors would be all wrong.” Clint smirked a little at the idea. He twisted around so he was lying on his side, smiling at Bruce. “Anything could happen, though.”

 

“Not anything.” Bruce glanced away again, looking at the wall like it held all of life’s answers. He was cool and impassive again, and it frustrated Clint. Every time he thought he was getting somewhere with Bruce, they slid back to where they started. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

 

Clint shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

 

“I…” Bruce clasped his hands together and took a deep breath. “I assumed something, in Saskatchewan, that I should not have assumed. When you, I—When you said I should get to bed I thought, well… I was a bit tired and, and _fraught_ and I assumed wrongly so…” He trailed off, his lips still forming soundless words as he tried to figure out what to say.

 

Clint frowned at him, mentally running through that night. He remembered Bruce lying on the floor, his face contorted with sorrow and exhaustion. He remembered finally pulling the plug on their chat with an order for Bruce to get some sleep. He remembered Bruce stiffening at the idea, but then letting him take his hand and lead him over. He remembered Bruce’s words when he’d asked if he could touch his arm.

 

_I can’t stop you._

 

“Oh,” Clint said. “You thought get to bed meant _get to bed_.”

 

Bruce grimaced. “I am so sorry.” He didn’t look at Clint, seemed unable to bear even blinking at the moment.

 

“Shit.” Clint was suddenly very aware of his position just a few feet away from Bruce, lying on soft cotton. He desperately wanted to jump up and go to his bag. He wanted to pull out his bow and use it as a safety blanket to hide from the conversation. Instead, he held very still. “Bruce, I should apologize. I didn’t think about how you might take that at the time. I should have asked before helping you up.”

 

Bruce shook his head, finally turning to look at Clint. “Don’t apologize. None of it was your fault.”

 

“It’s, I don’t…” Clint’s mind was spinning. _What would Coulson say?_ But Coulson probably wouldn’t have screwed up in the first place. “You, uh, thought that even before you knew that I was gay?”

 

“It’s not always about orientation.” Bruce’s eyes suddenly widened as his own words caught up with him. He jerked to the side and stood up, wavering for a moment before heading towards the door.

 

“Whoa, whoa.” Clint stood up as well, snapping to his feet. “Bruce, it’s okay. I’m sorry that I keep screwing up.” He held his hands up to touch Bruce, but stopped himself. He held there awkwardly for a moment, his fingers splayed in the air.

 

Bruce glanced back at him, roving his eyes over Clint’s outstretched arms. Whatever he saw seemed to disturb him, for in a flash all that heat and anger was back in his eyes and he turned it on Clint full-stop. Clint almost stumbled back at Bruce’s glare—no, _glare_ was too weak a word. This was one of the Hulk’s screams of rage incarnate, turned up full force behind dark brown eyes.

 

“I won’t _break_ if you touch me,” Bruce ground out. His hands were fists at his side.

 

Clint didn’t move, couldn’t move maybe. Either way he just stood there, staring. “I didn’t think you would,” he finally managed to say.

 

Bruce growled (actually _growled_ ) and turned on his heel. “Don’t come after me,” he said as he yanked open the door to the hotel room and stalked out. The door slipped shut behind him with a solid _click._

 

Clint watched him go, wondering what the hell had just happened. Slowly, he lowered his arms to his side and stared at the closed door. He willed Bruce to come back through, but nothing happened. He went over to his bag and pulled out his bow, cradling it in his hands. He felt a bit better then, almost believing that he was on a mission. He could let himself enter that calm, Zen state where he didn’t have to think about anything.

 

He climbed back on the bed and pulled up the covers, wiggling his toes in the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew, how did this angst get in here?
> 
> (This isn't a retcon of their conversation in Saskatchewan. I always knew this was what Bruce was thinking during their chat.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moments from Russia.

When Bruce did not return six hours later, Clint decided to track him down.

 

He wasn’t going _after_ Bruce, he was just following him. He told himself there was a difference, and that Bruce probably wouldn’t be mad about that. He didn’t believe his own lie, but it comforted him.

 

Clint had his own pack on his shoulder and Bruce’s bag in his hand as he hacked into the hotel cameras and found out which way Bruce had gone. He wasn’t very good at hacking, but his phone did most of the work, and none of the cameras were encoded. It was easy enough to see Bruce heading down the street, and he followed in the virtual-Bruce’s footsteps.

 

It took half-a-day, dozens of cameras, and a stolen car to track Bruce to a train station in Usinsk. He watched Bruce change his clothes twice, once to a ratty sweater and jeans, and the second time to a suit-jacket with patches on the elbows. Clint shook his head at the grainy footage, thinking it made Bruce look even more like the professor he could never be.

 

It was easy enough to remote access the cameras at the train station. He leaned against the wall, one leg bent to rest his foot on the brick behind him, and flipped through his phone. The jacket with elbow patches stood out enough for him to spot Bruce purchasing a ticket.

 

“Where are you headed, Banner?” Clint muttered to himself as he tried to zoom in on the ticket. The camera didn’t pick up enough detail for him to read it, and he cursed modern technology that could make cameras wirelessly accessible, but functionally useless for his purposes.

 

Then Bruce disappeared from the footage.

 

There was really no other way to explain it. One moment, Bruce was walking towards the lines of trains, the next he was gone. Clint rewound and watched again, but it didn’t change. He searched the faces in the crowd, tried to read their body language and their actions, but he couldn’t see him.

 

Clint cursed under his breath and pocketed the phone. He adopted an easy walk, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, as he wandered the train station until he found the place where Bruce had disappeared. He didn’t see what he expected to see—there was no hidden passageway, no platform nine-and-three-quarters. There wasn’t even a door or a bathroom that Bruce could have vanished into.

 

What there was, though, was Bruce’s suit jacket draped over a bench.

 

Clint collapsed on the bench like he’d just gotten off a long day of work and stretched out his legs. He listened to the bustle around him for a moment, barely registering half of the conversations as more than gibberish. When the people in the crowd had changed around him three times, he carefully slipped the jacket on.

 

It didn’t fit quite right. It was a little short in the sleeves, a bit tight in the shoulders. He would make do, however, and when he put his hands into the pockets he smiled.

 

He drew out Bruce’s ticket stub and whispered, “Got you.”

 

*

 

Bruce had to have left the jacket and ticket stub for him to find. There was no way he would have made a mistake like that. Or at least, that’s what Clint told himself as he hotwired another car and roared out of the city.

 

The train was heading south at a blistering pace, and Clint didn’t have time to wait for the next train to leave. He had no way of knowing how long Bruce would stay confined to the rails. He pulled up the train schedule on his phone as he drove, and hoped that Tony couldn’t track him through it.

 

He was lucky. The train was delayed.

 

Bruce’s six hour head start shrunk fast. Clint managed to pass the train, and he ditched the car to backtrack on foot. He was annoyed and half-frozen again by the time he reached the sleek metal tube, and he tugged the lapels of Bruce’s jacket a little higher around his neck.

 

There was snow on the track. The train was stuck behind another, smaller train that plowed the snow aside. It was moving slowly through the wilderness, at barely a walking pace. Clint knew that it would be that way for the next five miles, and so he took up residence in a tree.

 

It was strange, because it still wasn’t a mission. His nervous energy told him as much as he watched the train inch by from his perch. His leg was shaking, and he could hardly keep his eyes on the target even when he took his bow from his pack and ran his thumb over the string.

 

The energy was building, and he very nearly jumped out of the tree and stormed the train before he saw him.

 

There, in the observation car with his nose in a book, was unmistakably Bruce Banner.

 

Clint let out a wet laugh at the sight, just a burst of mist in the cold winter air. Some of his pent-up energy dissipated as Bruce turned the page of his book. Clint couldn’t see the title from where he was sitting, but the cover was black and it looked like Bruce was enthralled.

 

He swung his leg in the air as he considered his next move. He thought about boarding the train immediately and pleading with Bruce to come home. It would have made him feel better, and Bruce probably would have come with him. He knew Bruce’s guilt would be enough to make him do whatever Clint asked.

 

But Bruce had told him not to come after him.

 

In the end, he slipped into a back compartment in the train where the wind was lessened and he probably wouldn’t get hypothermia any time soon, and waited for the train to stop. He kept his winter jacket drawn tight around his neck, his gloved hands deep within his pockets. He settled for checking on Bruce occasionally by climbing on top of the cars and looking down as the wind whipped through his hair.

 

*

 

Bruce made a friend. A man who handed him books. Clint saw him read _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ and _The Return of the King_ , but not the prequels. The man would smile at Bruce and Bruce would smile back and they would talk about the books when he was done.

 

*

 

Bruce had an admirer. A little girl with bows in her hair who stared at Bruce over the back of her seat. She would kick her legs and Bruce would avoid her gaze until she couldn’t bear it any more. Clint was watching when she approached Bruce. She held up her arm, he held up his, and they compared the size of their hands.

 

*

 

Bruce sat alone when the night grew long. There was a guard on the train who made rounds and stopped by, and Clint could see the guard laughing at a joke Bruce made.

 

*

 

Bruce was a helper. He caught the woman who fell as the train went around a sharp bend. Clint nearly rolled off the top of the train as well, but he had been ready for it. He saw Bruce holding her hand, righting her. He saw her grateful smile as she patted him on the arm. He saw Bruce wince before shoring up, his mask slipping into place as he told her he was happy to help.

 

*

 

The train ride seemed to last forever. Clint daydreamed about Avengers Tower and what the rest of the team was up to. He wondered if they were worried, or if they were still trying to track him. He knew Tony was. He sat on top of the train and watched the stars streak by as the air warmed.

 

As the night passed from Wednesday into Thursday, Clint wondered what they would be watching for movie night. He could picture the assembled. Tony, commandeering an entire couch to spread out datapads and bowls of popcorn. Steve, who would sit prim and proper in a wooden rocking chair. Natasha, no doubt curled up with her knitting needles and yarn, her knees drawn up to her chest. Perhaps Thor would be there to eat all of their poptarts and gummy bears.

 

Maybe they would invite Sam Wilson, too. He wondered if Sam liked heights as much as him. If the Falcon would perch high in the rafters like Hawkeye always did. If they were inviting him, they could invite Rhodey and Pepper as well. Clint could imagine Tony begrudgingly sharing his couch with them, Pepper at his right hand and Rhodey sipping beer and struggling to keep him in line.

 

(He hoped they didn’t watch _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ like Tony had been threatening. Clint really wanted to be there to see their reactions when that happened.)

 

The snow never completely left, but Clint felt warmer. He folded his hands behind his head and crossed his legs, kicking his toes to the beat of _The Time Warp_.

 

*

 

Clint wasn’t sure what the name of the city was when they stopped. He could see it on the sign just fine, but it was ninety-percent consonants and his brain refused to interpret it. It was chilly, but not windy, when Bruce finally stepped off the train.

 

He watched Bruce make a bee-line for the nearest coffee shop, and only then did he realize how hungry he was. His stomach growled and quaked, desperate for sustenance. He told himself he would eat as soon as he knew where Bruce was resting for the night.

 

Bruce ordered a hot black tea and a muffin from the shop. Clint stretched himself out on top of the nearest rooftop and watched with growing jealousy as Bruce picked blueberries out of the muffin and ate them one by one. He was hungry, and cold, and he still wasn’t sure if he should reveal himself to Bruce.

 

After an obscenely long time Bruce wiped at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and downed the rest of his tea. Clint watched him disappear into the coffee shop again before returning with a steaming paper cup and another muffin. He followed Bruce partway across the city, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, until Bruce vanished into a building.

 

It was a bank. Clint frowned as Bruce entered the glass-fronted building. He could see Bruce walking to the back, towards the elevator, and he swung over and entered through the roof access.

 

He tried to play it cool in his winter jacket as he was surrounded by people in business suits and ties. No one gave him more than a second look as he strolled across the sea of cubicles to the elevator and keyed it open.

 

“Huh.” Clint blinked at the nearly-empty elevator. He stepped in. There was no Bruce, no other human being, but there tucked in the corner was a still-steaming cup of coffee and a muffin.

 

Clint smiled around a mouthful of the muffin. It was lemony and good, and the perfect sweet contrast to the bitter Russian coffee. He munched and sipped as the elevator made its descent. “Thanks, Bruce,” he murmured to the sky, though he knew Bruce couldn’t hear him.

 

He threw his cup in the trash and wiped his fingers on his coat as he stepped back outside to pick up the trail again.

 

*

 

“You should get me one of those apples, they look great,” Clint said from his perch a block away from Bruce.

 

Bruce couldn’t hear him, of course. Clint squinted and watched as Bruce danced his hands over the produce on display at the market. Bruce seemed to consider the apple for a moment before deciding on a bag of cashews. He paid with a dollar that Clint swore appeared from thin air.

 

“Aw, not cashews,” Clint griped, but he still swung off the roof and down the fire escape when Bruce began to move away.

 

He kept a comfortable distance as Bruce moved through the crowds. He knew that Bruce had already spotted him days ago, back in Russia when he’d left a muffin in an elevator, but it still felt better to pretend he was hidden. He thought it might make Bruce feel better, too.

 

Bruce left the cashews on a park bench, and Clint easily picked them up ten minutes later when he passed by. He chewed on them thoughtfully as his boots smacked in the damp mix of snow and dirt that lined the streets. They were actually quite good. Lightly salted with a hint of sugar, and roasted until they were golden brown with just the right amount of crispy crunch. Clint normally didn’t like nuts, but these he could handle.

 

“Where are we going next, Doc?” he asked, mostly to himself. He ran his finger along the inside of the bag to gather up the rest of the sugar and licked it off before tossing it away.

 

Bruce didn’t seem to have any destination in mind. He wandered the city like a ghost; moving with the bustle of people, yet apart from them. Clint saw him eyeing up the local clinic before moving on. They walked by a local homeless shelter, then a low-lying ghetto. Everything was quiet and Bruce’s interest didn’t seem piqued.

 

Clint took the opportunity of their lazy stroll to climb back onto the rooftops. He preferred to be up high where he could keep a better eye on Bruce, especially now that they had begun moving into a more dangerous neighborhood. The street lights were darker here, half of them burned out or broken. Most of the windows were boarded up, and everyone surrounding Bruce walked with their heads down and a hand to whatever weapon they had hidden.

 

Then he saw it, and Bruce saw it too. A little girl crying on the corner of the street.

 

Clint was on high alert as Bruce went to her, but that was Bruce’s great weakness. He couldn’t say no to a person in need, especially not a child. Her face was streaked with grime and tears and Bruce knelt beside her. Clint watched him like the hawk he was, but he still didn’t see it coming.

 

Everyone on the street had a knife, or a gun, or a weapon on them. He could track the subtle shifts in their movements easily enough to know that. It was hard to keep track of so many potential hostiles, and that in the end was their downfall.

 

He saw the flash of silver, barely had time to take a running leap onto the next rooftop and shout “ _Bruce!_ ” He had his bow out in that same instant and saw Bruce turn in slow motion as his shout rang out over the street.

 

Bruce doubled over the knife in his gut. People scattered. Clint shot the wielder without thinking and watched him slump to the ground.

 

“Fuck.” He grabbed a rappel arrow and jabbed it into the building, sliding down as quickly as he could without breaking his legs. His teeth jarred as he landed and he ran again, shooting the man’s accomplice and watching the little girl run away.

 

“Bruce!” Clint’s training kicked in at the sight of blood pouring out of Bruce’s stomach. He reached out a hand automatically and was shocked when Bruce looked up at him with wet, green eyes.

 

“Don’t touch me!”

 

“Bruce, I have to, you need—”

 

“No!” Bruce tried to stumble to his feet but fell back down. His hands were clenched around the knife, holding it still. The blood was everywhere. Smeared across his coat, on his fingers, on the sidewalk. “My blood is poison.”

 

“Oh.” Clint wavered there for a moment, his arms outstretched. He was suddenly, inexplicably reminded of that night nearly a week ago in their hotel room in Naryan-Mar. He’d reached out to Bruce then, too, and been just as ineffectual.

 

Clint dropped his arms and ripped off his over-coat, handing it to Bruce. “Pack the wound. I’m getting you out of here.”

 

Bruce accepted his coat with shaking fingers and pushed it tightly around the knife. The flow slowed to a trickle then, blocked by cotton, and Bruce made no protest as Clint gathered him up in his arms.

 

Bruce seemed to weigh nothing as he stumbled off the street. He could sense Bruce counting heartbeats in each twitch of his fingers, each quickened breath. Clint had the city memorized—had known it back-to-front the second he’d laid eyes on it—and he wasted no time. He ran as quickly as he could, weighed down by the man in his arms who seemed light enough to float away.

 

“Don’t worry,” he heard himself say around the pounding of his own blood in his own ears. “I’ve got you.”

 

“Not going to make it,” Bruce ground out. His words were like stones grating together, rough with that hint of danger behind it.

 

Clint looked down at him for just a moment, just long enough for dangerous-green eyes to lock to his own and said, “You’ll make it.”

 

They ran through the streets, Bruce counting heartbeats, Clint counting footsteps, until they reached the edge and Bruce couldn’t hold the Other Guy back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has references to the first part in this series, a fic called [_Dance, Bruce!_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1975998) If you haven't read it now's the time!

The first time he’d seen Bruce transform to the tune of _that’s my secret_ it had been a surprise to say the least.

 

He’d already made the connection in his head between this quiet man and the Hulk that everyone kept talking about, but it still shocked him. Clint just hadn’t expected it to be so _violent_. It was all noise: the sound of bones breaking and muscles tearing and skin stretching unnaturally across a new body. It had looked painful, unbearable, and sometimes he wondered if that was part of why the Hulk was always angry.

 

After that he’d seen Bruce transform only a handful of times, all of them when Clint was miles away and safe. They didn’t often call on him; most crises didn’t require a ten-foot radiation beast. But he knew enough to realize that it took a lot out of Bruce, and even more out of the Hulk.

 

All this raced through his mind quickly as they breached the city limits and Clint dashed under the cover of the snow-capped trees. Bruce was suddenly twisting in his arms, his face stretched in a silent scream, and Clint only had a second to drop him to the ground and step back.

 

“Shit,” he said, then, “Shit, shit, shit.”

 

Bruce was breaking, shattering, reforming. He was moving up and out, and there was just enough of Bruce left to say, “Clint, _run_ ,” in the Hulk’s voice.

 

Clint didn’t run. It was sort of his thing, now, to stand there stupidly while the world turned beneath him.

 

The Hulk was rising where Bruce had been just a moment ago. He roared and it nearly knocked Clint off his feet. He watched numbly as the Hulk dropped his hand to the tiny knife in his stomach and plucked it out like a bee’s stinger. Hulk huffed at it and flicked it aside.

 

“Wow,” Clint said, and instantly regretted it as the Hulk turned to glare at him. He held very still, not even daring to move his eyes from Hulk’s face as Hulk advanced on him.

 

“Puny,” Hulk said—but _said_ probably wasn’t the right word. More like _bellowed_ , although for the Hulk maybe it was a whisper. Hulk reached out his hand, his fingers as thick around as Clint’s arm and flexing and dangerous and _oh, shit—_

 

Hulk paused. They breathed there for a moment, still. Clint could see the Hulk struggling with his arm out stretched, and then green eyes flashed brown.

 

Hulk growled at him. “Hulk touch?”

 

“What.” Clint finally blinked. He felt like his legs were about to give out. “What,” he said again.

 

The Hulk huffed out a breath and then—did he _roll_ his _eyes?_ Hulk’s fingers twitched at him. “Hulk touch?” he asked again.

 

“Uh.” Clint glanced down at the Hulk’s hand, as broad as his chest, and heard himself say, “Yes.”

 

Hulk grumbled at him and closed the distance, wrapping his huge fingers around Clint’s torso. Clint’s legs really did give out then, but it was okay because the Hulk caught him and held him up. Hulk tugged him close, and he was so delicate and gentle that it startled a laugh out of Clint.

 

“Wow, Jade Jaws,” he murmured. “You really are a softie.”

 

“Hulk not soft,” Hulk growled at him, and Clint quickly nodded in response.

 

“No, no, not soft. You’re very strong.” He wiggled a little in Hulk’s grip, his legs dangling in the air. “See? Strong enough to hold me.”

 

“Cupid light.” Hulk shrugged one great shoulder. He held Clint close as he turned to survey the scene; the knife now stuck in a tree, the smear of blood in the snow, the bits of destroyed fabric scattered around. “Banner weak.”

 

“Hey, that’s not very nice,” Clint said before he could stop himself. Hulk gave him a tired look. “Well, it isn’t,” Clint insisted. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling slightly ridiculous as he hung in Hulk’s grip. “Bruce isn’t weak. He’s just had bad things happen to him.”

 

“Hulk bad thing,” Hulk said, and before Clint could respond to that Hulk raised his head and looked out towards the city. “Bad things coming.”

 

Clint looked back over his shoulder, following Hulk’s line of sight. He could see movement at the edge of the city—rows of cars and men with guns—and he clenched his fists. “All right. Hulk, we need to get out of here. Can you run?”

 

Hulk snorted at that. “Hulk fastest,” he said. He gathered Clint against his chest and Clint felt one arm around his waist, and one hand cradling the back of his head. He started to struggle and insist he could move himself but Hulk took no guff as he bent his knees and _jumped_.

 

(He’d once heard Bruce say that the Hulk could jump four miles in a single bound. He now believed it.)

 

*

 

Clint had no idea how far the Hulk carried him, but it must have been hundreds of miles. The temperature rose steadily until Clint was sweaty under Bruce’s jacket-with-patches-for-elbows. After a while the adrenaline of being _cradled by the god damned Hulk_ wore off and it just became another thing in Clint’s life. It wasn’t soothing by any stretch of the imagination. He wasn’t about to nod off or feel relaxed. But, he could let his mind wander to other things.

 

Like, the thought that the Hulk smelled kind of weird. Not bad, which was what Clint had expected. He’d expected him to smell toxic, like radiation (whatever that smelled like…) With his face pressed up against Hulk’s chest all he could really do was stare at green skin and smell, and he realized that the Hulk smelled like sandalwood.

 

Which was weird because _Bruce_ smelled like that, and he hadn’t known he knew that until it was confronting him in the form of an unstoppable rage monster who was _hugging him_. A bit of that earlier adrenaline tried to kick back in as he realized his position again, but he stomped it back down. He had always been the normal one on a team of odd-balls, so it was understandable that he was a little freaked out. He told himself it was okay to panic a little.

 

He didn’t really know how to broach the subject of _why do you smell so good?_ when he was flying through the air, so he said nothing.

 

Eventually, they stopped.

 

Hulk set him down slowly, but Clint’s legs still collapsed beneath him and he fell to the ground. He sat there, numbly, for a long moment and looked around the tiny clearing they had landed in. There was water trickling away from a bubbling brook, and trees all around. Hulk was snuffling and examining the water with a strangely content expression on his face.

 

“Okay,” Clint said, or tried to say, because it came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and rolled up onto his hands and knees to crawl to the stream. He knew he shouldn’t drink unknown water, but he did anyway to soothe his throat. He gulped down cool, clear water until he didn’t feel so ill.

 

He turned to where Hulk was staring at him intently. “Okay,” Clint said again, a little clearer this time. “That was…that was good, Hulk. Great job getting us out of there.”

 

Hulk gave him a smile that was more like a snarl. “Hulk fastest.”

 

“Yes.” Clint laughed. He sank back on his knees, feeling absurdly small. “You said that, and you proved it.”

 

Hulk sat down hard enough to make the ground shudder. “Cupid okay?”

 

“Yes, I’m okay.” He ran his hands over his body just to make sure, astonished that he still had two backpacks and his bow clinging to him. “Are you okay?”

 

“Hulk always okay.” Hulk snorted again and looked away from Clint in disgust.

 

“Just checking.” He laughed again, wildly. “I have to make sure my friends are okay. Is… is Bruce okay?”

 

Hulk turned to look at him again, the disgust curling more greatly on his face. “Banner puny,” he said, baring his teeth at the idea.

 

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Clint said carefully. “Is he okay?”

 

“Stupid,” Hulk said, crossing his arms over his chest. Clint watched him for a moment before deciding he wasn’t going to get much more out of Hulk.

 

Slowly, he managed to get his feet under him and stand up. He still felt wobbly, his body running on empty after such a long adrenaline high. He started towards Hulk, who was watching him warily. “Look, Jade Jaws, I just want to make sure he’s okay, too. He’s my friend.” He raised his hand in a placating gesture. “And he didn’t exactly leave on the best of circumstances, so—”

 

He came up short as Hulk stuck out a finger, placing it solidly against Clint’s chest to make him stop. Hulk pulled away, leaving a foot of space between them. “Cupid _asks_ ,” Hulk growled.

 

“Cupid asks,” Clint repeated dumbly. He looked down at the Hulk’s hand, then at his own arms outstretched. “ _Oh_. Ask.” It was too absurd. He must have died and this was all a fever dream. “Is it all right if I touch you?”

 

Hulk let out a huff, but did offer his arm. Clint closed the gap between them and rested his hand just below the Hulk’s elbow. Hulk seemed almost frustrated by the touch, but didn’t pull away as Clint moved closer.

 

“Banner puny, but okay,” Hulk said eventually. He was staring at Clint’s hand on his arm.

 

Clint gave a little squeeze, wondering if it even registered to the Hulk who could shake off missiles. “That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”

 

Hulk glanced down at him then, his face scrunched together in confusion. Clint almost laughed at the sight of Hulk pulling the same face Bruce always did when the pieces didn’t quite fit. It was so strange to see, but the memory of the last time Bruce had given him that look drew him up short. “Hulk touch Cupid?” Hulk asked after a moment, never dropping his confused look.

 

“Sure, that’s fine.”

 

Hulk was gentle again as he drew Clint into his arms. It was better, then, because Clint no longer had to worry about his legs giving out or collapsing. He rested his back against Hulk’s bicep and draped his legs over the Hulk’s wrist. Hulk was staring at him as he nestled there and they both listened to the sound of water flowing. Clint was feeling hot and sticky, then, so he stripped off Bruce’s jacket and threw it aside. Hulk grunted what could have been a laugh as he did so.

 

He could feel Hulk breathing, each breath short and fast but slowly growing longer and more focused. He let himself be held there as he swung his legs, already feeling that nervous, jittery energy reasserting itself in his body.

 

Then the Hulk began to shrink, and Clint had to scramble not to crush Bruce.

 

He managed to twist away and Bruce ended up on his side in a tangle of limbs on the rocky ground. His eyes were closed, his face impassive with sleep, and Clint could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed. Clint let out a little sigh of relief and moved to rearrange Bruce in a more comfortable position.

 

As soon as his hand touched Bruce’s shoulder, he realized his mistake. Bruce’s eyes flew open and he batted out an arm, knocking Clint away as he rolled to his feet. Bruce was suddenly battle-ready, his fists clutched at his sides even as his sleepy eyes focused on the situation.

 

“Whoa there, big guy,” Clint said. “It’s just me.”

 

Bruce immediately relaxed at the sound of his voice and sat down again. “Clint,” he said, as if he had to remind himself. He gazed off into some middle-distance, and Clint suddenly realized that Bruce had lost his glasses. “You’re okay.”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Clint leaned down near Bruce, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “Are you okay?”

 

Bruce looked confused. “Of course.” He slowly turned his head to look at Clint, a tiny line of concern forming between his eyebrows. “I didn’t kill you.”

 

“No.” Clint’s heart clenched at his words. “You didn’t. I was never worried about that. Hulk was a big softie. He only wanted to help.”

 

“Okay.” Bruce coughed a little, and made an abortive attempt at moving towards the river. “Sorry, just need…”

 

“Stay there.” Clint stood again and reached into his quiver. He drew out a net arrow and quickly depressed it. The net flew onto the ground uselessly, leaving the empty chassis behind. Clint broke off the arrow shaft and used the chassis as a cup to scoop up water.

 

It wasn’t very big, and Clint had to make seven trips before Bruce was no longer coughing from dehydration. He kept Bruce drinking until Bruce pushed the chassis away.

 

“I’m fine,” Bruce told him, and his voice was a little stronger so Clint let himself believe it. “Hand me my bag?”

 

Clint obeyed and watched wordlessly as Bruce pulled out a t-shirt and yanked it over his head before pulling a new pair of shorts right over his ruined jeans. Clint was glad he’d kept Bruce’s pack close at hand, because Bruce seemed to have a complete post-Hulk-out kit in there. Bruce pulled out an energy bar, faded and squashed, and shoved most of it in his mouth. He pulled out another and handed it to Clint.

 

“I’m fine.” Clint sat back on his heels and smiled at Bruce. “I had some cashews earlier.”

 

Bruce smiled a little at that and continued to eat the bar. “I was worried you weren’t getting those. I never saw you eat.”

 

“I was eating fine,” Clint told him. “Just maybe not always when you were looking.”

 

“Seems like I was always looking.” Bruce had already finished one bar, and he carefully peeled off the wrapper on a second and began eating. He ate that one more slowly, as if he was savoring the artificial flavors wrapped in peanuts and milk chocolate. “We need to locate a town. I’m going to need at least five-thousand calories in my next meal to avoid losing weight.”

 

Clint blinked. “That’s a lot.”

 

Bruce glanced up at him, a little sparkle in his eye that made Clint smile unexpectedly. “Did you think I just really liked shawarma?”

 

“Well, who doesn’t?” Clint shrugged. “I think we all ate more than was healthy after that battle.”

 

“Except for Steve. He fell asleep in the fries.” Bruce chewed his next bite slowly. “Clint, is it all right if I touch your arm?”

 

“Uh, sure.” Clint blinked again, surprised at the sudden question.

 

He leaned forward a bit and watched Bruce reach out to rest his hand against Clint’s bicep. It was strange, then, because a certain tension seemed to flow out of Bruce. But he hadn’t looked tense. He’d seemed relaxed as he munched on his energy bar and chatted about other post-battles. Despite his outward appearance, Clint could still feel the steady drain of tension where Bruce touched him.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Bruce said lightly around a mouthful of bar. He shoved the final bite into his mouth and tucked the wrapper away into his bag.

 

Clint wasn’t exactly sure what to say. He couldn’t tell the right thing from the wrong thing. But he could feel Bruce preparing to pull his hand away, so he said the first thing that popped into his mind. “You kept me safe.”

 

Bruce yanked his hand away like Clint’s words burned him. Clint started forward, half-panicked as Bruce pulled away. “Don’t say things like that,” Bruce told him. “It’s not true.”

 

“Yes it is.” Clint struggled to regain control of the situation. “You kept me from touching your blood. You kept the Hulk down even though you were _dying_ , Bruce. And when he was out you made him ask if it was okay to touch me.”

 

Bruce stared at him incredulously. “He doesn’t ask for anything.”

 

“ _You_ made him ask,” Clint stressed. “I saw his eyes. They were _your_ eyes when he asked if it was okay.”

 

“That’s not possible.” Bruce shook his head. “That’s not—he doesn’t _ask_.” He drew his hands up to his face and pressed his palms against his temples. “Why would he ask? What could he stand to gain?”

 

“Something must have come through to him. But, Bruce, he didn’t hurt me. You would never hurt me.”

 

Bruce lurched to his feet. “No, no,” he said. “I have hurt you.”

 

Clint followed after him, wincing as Bruce’s bare feet scraped against the rock. “You’ve never—

”

 

“Yes I did!” Bruce whirled around, bellowing. “I hit you! I hit you in Saskatchewan and I didn’t even _care_. I would have done anything to get you to leave me alone and then I, I…” He gestured weakly at Clint’s arm, at the memory of a faint bruise and Clint calling the Avengers. “I could have broken your wrist.”

 

“No, you couldn’t have.” Clint shook his head and stepped towards Bruce, almost but not quite entering his personal space. “You’re not strong enough to break a man’s wrist.”

 

And that was probably the wrong thing to say because Bruce’s face just screwed up in anguish and he said, “I’m the reason Loki took you.”

 

Clint suddenly couldn’t breathe. He was choking and sinking and he slammed a fist against his own chest in a desperate attempt to make sure his heart was still beating, because he _didn’t_ have heart. He was nothing. He was no one. He was the next mission and Loki’s smile and blue light and _nothing_.

 

“Clint, Clint, I’m sorry.” Bruce held up his arms and if he had asked, Clint would have said no. But he didn’t ask. He just grabbed Clint’s shoulders and _shook_ him until Clint was breathing again.

 

He took in a deep breath, feeling air scrape against his lungs like razor blades as Bruce shook him back to himself whispering over and over _sorry, so sorry_. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care that Bruce was sorry. He didn’t care that he was trying to make it better because who _said_ things like that?

 

Clint jerked away as soon as he had his breath back and clenched his hands into fists. “Explain.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said immediately, like he was on autopilot. “I just, I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands together pitifully. “I’m the reason why he took you and Erik. It was my—it was my research that Erik was building on. I’m why he was in New Mexico. I’m why Loki even met you.”

 

Clint just stared at him until his fists relaxed and all he could do was bury his head in his hands and laugh. “Bruce, what?” He couldn’t stop. The laughter was sick and wrecked and disgusting, but he couldn’t stop it. “You weren’t even there. Selvig was there for Foster.”

 

He couldn’t see Bruce, but he could hear the shift in his tone as he switched the mask into place. “When I was twenty-six I discovered Asgard and Jotunheim.”

 

“What?” Clint gazed up at him between his fingertips. Bruce wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t really looking at anything. He was staring up at the sky, his face so calm and cool that it made Clint sick.

 

“I didn’t know what I was looking at, really. But both realms consume Gamma radiation, and I discovered its absence. Asgard consumes because of the bifrost, and Jotunheim because of the frost giants. I know this now, but at the time I was a stupid grad student desperate to publish.” A little smile flitted across his face, so hateful that Clint wanted to reach out and shake him back, but he didn’t. “And Erik was willing to publish with me.

 

“It was all my theory, my work, but eventually I grew out of it. I needed something dissertation worthy. So I gave it to Erik, and he gave it to Dr. Foster when she was his student. They built on it together until they could detect the bifrost opening and closing, and that’s what brought them to New Mexico when Thor was cast out.”

 

“Bruce, none of that was—”

 

Bruce kept talking like Clint wasn’t even there. Maybe to Bruce, he wasn’t. “I’ve pieced it all together since then. You were stationed there. Erik heard all about you and when Loki… when he…” He choked on the words. “When he took over his mind, Erik said you would be the perfect addition to their team. And Loki believed him. He orchestrated the whole thing so that you would be the one to guard the Tesseract.” Bruce shook his head. “If I hadn’t handed off that research, I would have been the foremost expert. I would have been there for Loki to take, and neither of you would have had to suffer.”

 

His words hung in the air for a moment, a ringing silence. Clint clenched his fists again, struggling to wrap his mind around it all. “Bruce,” he said finally. “That’s the most roundabout damned bullshit way to take responsibility for a situation completely outside your control that I have ever heard.”

 

Bruce startled a little and looked up at him, the corner of his mask slipping away. “It was my fault.”

 

“No, it wasn’t.” Clint desperately wanted to shake some sense into him, but he was so _tired_ and still reeling from the Hulk and the memory of Loki that all he could do was stand there with his arms limp at his side. “It’s really not. I don’t know what to say to get you to believe that, but it’s not your fault.”

 

Bruce was wringing his hands again as he looked at Clint. Clint could see the struggle under his skin to believe him, the wrinkle between his eyes as he tried to understand. Clint just wanted to reach out and reassure him, because there was not one single word that was adequate to express the way he felt.

 

“Is it all right if I—”

 

“Do you mind if I touch—”

 

They both stopped, tripping over each other’s words. Then, together they said, “Yes.”

 

Bruce reached out, curling his broad hand around Clint’s bicep. Clint leaned forward and rested his fingers against Bruce’s forearm. They were a wavering, struggling mirror to one another as they held on for dear life and Clint desperately tried to convey _it’s okay, it’s okay_ without words. There was no other point of contact, no crashing together or perfect fit. It was broken and terrible and all they had.

 

They stood that way for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you gave Bruce enough time I'm sure he could find a way to blame himself for every single thing that has ever gone wrong. Even (especially) things that happened before he was born.


	7. Chapter 7

They walked about three miles before Clint threw up in a bush.

 

It was kind of disgusting, mostly water, and Clint dry heaved for far too long with his fingers tangled around leaves and branches. He could feel Bruce hovering nervously to one side, his doctor’s instincts begging to take over.

 

“I’m fine,” Clint said as soon as his jaw didn’t feel so wobbly.

 

“You drank the water.”

 

“Yeah, guess I did,” and he threw up again.

 

Bruce was kind enough to wait until he finished before berating him. As much as Bruce could berate someone, anyway. “Ah, that’s not good.” He began to wring his hands together at his waist, and Clint found himself hazily staring at the motion. “I should have boiled you some water.”

 

“Seriously?” Clint definitely wasn’t slurring his words, but his mouth felt dry and gross, and he would have killed for some _good_ water right then. “You weren’t even there.” He shook his head a little and managed to stumble over to Bruce. His legs were limp and uncooperative, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he was face-down in another bush. His SHIELD training had to count for something, however, and he resolved to keep going.

 

Bruce looked like he was about to try and take responsibility for yet another thing that wasn’t his fault, so Clint spoke over him. “Anyway, you drank it, too.”

 

“I can’t get sick,” Bruce said with a shrug. He offered Clint his arm and Clint didn’t hesitate to lean on him. The dehydration was already messing with his head.

 

“Ever?” Clint clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, feeling the dry parch. He figured his breath had to be pretty ripe, but it fit with Bruce’s smell of sweat and dirt and blood.

 

“Not since the Other Guy.”

 

They walked for quite a while, with Clint leaning on Bruce when his head swam, and occasionally ducking to one side as his body tried to make him expel nothing but air. Bruce’s face was a grim line of determination as they moved through the mountains. Clint was exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated when he pulled himself out of the fourth bush in as many minutes.

 

He leaned on Bruce heavily, with Bruce’s arm under his shoulders to keep him upright. He was feeling hazy, almost nice, as he looked up at the sky. He couldn’t exactly tell if he was talking, but he heard words that sounded like his voice. “’zat mean you’re immortal?”

 

Bruce was cool as cucumber against him when he said, “I hope not.”

 

*

 

Things were very dark. Clint was a dry desert heat, and a misty fog.

 

Water against his lips, as calm and cool as Bruce always was. Maybe he said that out loud. He thought he heard Bruce chuckle as he slipped back down into…

 

*

 

His mind was a fever; his body was an empty shell. He climbed up high in the rafters and swung his legs over the side, watching his friends below. They danced, with Natasha hanging off a translucent Phil and Tony twirling Pepper around. Thor had the lovely lady Jane close to him, muttering sweet-nothings in her hair. Steve stood to one side and spoke to a man with a metal arm. Clint could see the Falcon hovering nearby—literally, with his metal wings spread and jetpack firing. Falcon looked up at him and flew, rising in a silent arc.

 

“This is my perch, now.”

 

His mind was an empty shell; his body was a fever. Rafters twisted beneath him and he was _hot_ , so hot and Falcon was grinning at him as the rafters swallowed him up, drew him close, into broad, green arms.

 

He held himself against the Hulk’s chest, shaking like a child in a thunderstorm. Rafters of flesh and radiation held him up, refused to let him drop, as Falcon laughed gleefully at the sight of the Avengers dancing below.

 

Clint could hear humming in his chest, vibrating through his core. He was both a fever and empty, cool and complete. He wanted to know where Bruce was as Hulk held him like a baby that would not fall asleep. He could feel Hulk’s hand in his hair, Bruce’s voice in his ears.

 

“It’s all right, Clint. I’ve got you.”

 

*

 

The first thing Clint noticed when he finally started to pull himself out of his fever was that he itched. Not just a little itch, but an all-over itch. The kind of itch he’d only ever gotten after a particularly bad sunburn. Each expanse of his skin was stretched tight over his body, held aloft by goodwill and practice, rubbed raw by the harsh wool blanket he was wrapped in.

 

Second, he noticed that he wasn’t sweating, even though it was so hot he thought he might die.

 

He let out a broken wheeze of air, his throat so parched he couldn’t believe it still worked. He tried to lift his arms but they were frozen with heat. He felt cool hands on his forehead, then the press of cloth. He realized belatedly that his eyes were closed, but they felt stuck that way.

 

Clint held still out of necessity as the hands brushed the wet rag over his head. He could feel fingers in his hair, wetting it, and for a moment he felt cooler.

 

“Clint, can you sit up for me?” There was a hand on his back, broad and sure. Clint figured he could trust a hand like that, and so he struggled to rise. He got a few inches up, enough for his lips to part at the press of ceramic and warm water to slide down his aching throat. The water was so thin, like a lifeline that he clung to as he came back to himself.

 

A headache he hadn’t realized was there slipped away as he drank. He had maybe a cup of water, all told, and then his stomach felt full and sluggish. Broad hands shifted him back down and Clint let out a long, low sigh.

 

His eyes were still closed when he drifted off again.

 

*

 

Clint watched Bruce eat his weight in fish and bread, and tried not to appear too disgusted at the thought of food. He contented himself with snickering a little at the sight of Bruce eating with a single-minded determination that could only come from having tripled in size.

 

For his part, Clint managed to eat a few pinches of fish. He hoped the protein would be enough to get Bruce off his back about eating.

 

“You really should eat more,” Bruce said as Clint pushed the rest of the fish onto Bruce’s plate. Bruce stared at the fish like it was that alien thing—like it was friendship and kindness in a neat, scaly little package and Bruce didn’t quite understand what to do with it.

 

“Not feeling it.” Clint shrugged. He pulled the wool blanket higher around his shoulders and smiled as their hostess handed him a ceramic mug full of tea. “Thank you,” he said in Russian.

 

She smiled back at him. She knew a smattering of Russian, as did Clint, but it seemed that there was very little overlap in which words they knew. Clint could really only thank her for her hospitality. She’d been kind enough to take them in when it had just been Bruce—who spoke no Russian—and a practically-comatose Clint. She’d ushered them into her tiny home with open arms, and had nothing but smiles for them.

 

Smiles, and wry expressions that told how impressed she was with how much Bruce could eat.

 

Clint was feeling hazy and sleepy again as he drank his tea and watched Bruce mow through another piece of flat bread. The woman bustled around the stove in the corner, poking and prodding at the fish she was cooking. Clint found himself lazily comparing their clothes. Bruce, clad in his jacket-with-patches-for-elbows and two pairs of pants. He looked scraggly and tired, staring off into the middle distance as he ate. Their hostess was dressed to the nines in a colorful cotton dress with black and red thread and a hat that had Clint envious. She acted like she had someone to impress, and Clint felt a little weird sitting mostly-naked under a blanket.

 

Bruce finished three more fish, picking bones out through his teeth, in silence. Gradually, his eyes seemed to focus. He glanced toward Clint, then away. Clint sipped at his tea and waited for the inevitable.

 

“As soon as I know you’re out of the danger zone, I’ll be heading to the nearest city to—”

 

“Did you know you smell like sandalwood?” Clint interrupted, surprising himself.

 

“I…what?” Bruce turned to blink at him. He’d found glasses somewhere, maybe from his Hulk-out kit, and they glinted under the kerosene lantern.

 

“Yeah.” He felt strangely protected in his blanket-shield. “I didn’t realize until Hulk was carrying me across the continent, but you do. Is that like a radiation thing?”

 

Bruce blinked at him for a while longer, and then took a slow bite of his bread. He chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t think anyone’s ever made a connection between gamma radiation and the smell of sandalwood.”

 

“Hey.” Clint shrugged, his blanket bunching around his ears. “Maybe I just made a kick-ass scientific discovery.” When Bruce gave him a tiny smile, Clint went on. “So, what are _we_ heading to the city for?”

 

“Your phone’s battery is dead.” He gestured around the hut they had found themselves in, at the coal stove in the corner and the paper on the windows. “We can’t exactly charge it here.”

 

“You planning on making a call?”

 

Bruce gave him a tired look, broken only by a gentle smile of thanks as their hostess handed him a mug of tea. “I think this has gone on long enough, Clint.”

 

Clint nodded slowly at his words, wanting to argue but unable to determine what to say. His nodding was enough, however, for the roiling in his gut to reappear. He stumbled to his feet, pushed open the door, and barely made it before his meager lunch was on the ground.

 

After that, Clint sort of forgot about telling Bruce not to go, because Bruce didn’t seem to want to do anything at all.

 

*

 

They remained at the little cabin in the mountains with their hostess for four days. It was longer than they had stayed anywhere else, and Clint had completely recovered after day two, so he was beginning to get a little worried. He would occasionally find Bruce sitting out in front of the hut not really looking at anything, just existing. When Bruce ate it was slow and methodical like he was reading instructions for eating out of a book. Mostly, though, Bruce just lay at the foot of the bed awake with his eyes closed.

 

On the fourth day, their hostess got sick of them and kicked them out.

 

She did it with a smile on her face while handing them a bag full of supplies, so Clint didn’t hold a grudge. He saw her refuse Bruce’s offer of money (and then saw Bruce hiding bills all around the hut). She waved them off mid-morning after pointing them in the direction of the nearest city.

 

Bruce was silent as they walked. Clint was used to silence—he was even used to silence around Bruce. But something about the timbre of this silence struck him as a little…off. He couldn’t put his finger on the problem.

 

They walked until a few hours before sunset, and then they set up camp. They boiled their water this time and stirred in black tea. The drink smelled heavenly, and Clint gulped his down eagerly. Bruce acted as though his tasted like sawdust, his eyes blank and emotionless. He was going through the motions but not really living.

 

“Do you want to go home?” Clint finally asked as they rolled out their blankets and sat under the stars.

 

“Do you?” Bruce asked back, and that we enough of an answer for Clint.

 

He shook his head. “Only if you want to. I may have had an ulterior motive for going after you all those times.” He gestured at the stars above them, at the mountains all around. “I actually like camping.” He smiled at Bruce.

 

Bruce gave him a stiff smile back, like he couldn’t remember how to work his mouth. In the firelight it was ghastly. It wasn’t one of his real smiles, nor was it one of his pretend smiles. It was broken and confused, hanging there against his lips.

 

It made Clint’s heart clench.

 

“Bruce, is everything…Okay?”

 

Bruce blinked over at him slowly. “There’s no reason for it not to be.”

 

“All right.” Clint rolled over on his side and propped his head up on his arm. “You just seem off. You sure you can’t get sick?”

 

Bruce shrugged and flipped his head back to look up at the sky. “I’m only tired.”

 

Clint looked down at him for a moment. The fire crackled pleasantly beside them, and a thin breeze picked up and sent sparks dancing through the air. An ember landed on Bruce’s sleeve and Bruce slowly reached up to brush it away without ever looking at it.

 

“Thank you,” Clint said when the night sky started to feel too open and yawning. “For taking care of me back there.”

 

“Thank _you_ ,” Bruce said suddenly. He spun his head back around and locked Clint in a confused stare. “You’ve given up so much just to follow me around.”

 

“S’no big deal.” Clint shrugged. To him, it really wasn’t. He shifted down a bit so his head was pillowed in the crook of his arm and watched the way fire reflected in Bruce’s eyes. Clint felt lost for a moment in those bleakly searching eyes, and so he fell back on what had worked before. “Is it all right if I touch your arm?”

 

Bruce glanced down at Clint’s hand, considering. He still seemed like he was trying to read about social interaction in a book, but eventually he shook his head. “Not, ah, not tonight. Later maybe.”

 

Clint tried not to feel disappointed as Bruce turned his face back to the sky and closed his eyes. He buried his hand under his waist instead, feeling scratchy wool beneath him. He watched Bruce until the man’s breathing became slow and regular, chest rising and falling as he slept.

 

Then Clint closed his eyes and tried to follow after.


	8. Chapter 8

It was their third night camping under the stars and searching for electricity when Clint awoke to strangled, muffled screams.

 

He was instantly on high alert. He leapt up and had a knife in his hand before his eyes even opened. SHIELD training had him expecting assassins or HYDRA agents—or at least bandits. What he got was a very still Bruce Banner screaming in his sleep.

 

Clint just stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile Bruce’s calm face and unmoving form with the horrible sounds he was making. The only movement came from his chest—slowly rising and falling with even breaths—and beneath his eyelids as he went to pieces.

 

“Shit.” Clint dropped to his knees at Bruce’s side and reached out, but didn’t touch. He remembered Bruce panicking at being woken up to touch before. “Bruce,” he said firmly. “Bruce, it’s all right. I need you to wake up.”

 

He spoke Bruce’s name again and again, his voice slowly rising in pitch until something finally got through to the man. His eyes flew open and he sat bolt-upright, fear flooding his face. He threw his arms up to his head and clutched at his hair, suddenly breathing heavy.

 

“Bruce?”

 

Bruce whirled around and grabbed Clint’s still-outstretched arm. He yanked his sleeve up and ran his hand over Clint’s wrist. Some vague part of Clint realized that Bruce was examining him—almost like he was looking for injury. Bruce raised a hand to Clint’s jaw and gripped him solidly, turning his face to squint at his chin in the dim starlight.

 

“Clint?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

 

“It’s okay,” Clint said, feeling a little awkward with the way Bruce was still holding his jaw. “I think you were dreaming.”

 

Bruce dropped his grip immediately and pulled back. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, shaking slightly. “I didn’t hurt you? You’re okay?”

 

“I’m fine. It was just a dream.” He leaned in, settling on the edge of Bruce’s blanket. He wondered if Bruce had these flashes every time he woke up someplace unfamiliar—if he always wondered if the Hulk had come out. “You didn’t go green at all.”

 

“Right.” Bruce deflated, nervous energy wafting off his shoulders. “Hulk. Right. He’s the… he hurts people.”

 

Clint wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he allowed Bruce to center himself. He could see Bruce slowly breathing in and out steadily, tell-tale signs that he was attempting to regain his control. Clint tried to decide what he should say in this situation—if he should say anything at all.

 

Finally, he settled on, “Is there anything you need from me?”

 

Bruce deflated a little more and turned his head to stare at Clint’s shoulder. His eyes were unfocused, shiny in the dim star light. “Maybe?” He sounded exhausted, wrecked from his nightmare.

 

“Anything you need,” Clint said again.

 

“Are you…” Bruce started, and then shook his head. He glanced up, momentarily locking eyes with Clint before dropping his gaze back down to Clint’s shoulder. When he spoke his voice was tiny, so small Clint had to lean in to hear him. “I need to convince myself you’re alive.”

 

“Of course I’m alive.” Clint leaned in a little farther, and was honestly surprised when Bruce didn’t pull away. “I’m not hurt,” he stressed. “Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

 

Bruce shook his head, hair flopping wildly around his ears as he buried his face in his arms. “Sorry,” Bruce muttered. “Just…you can go back to sleep.”

 

Clint frowned at him. Bruce was clearly upset, though from what Clint could see it wasn’t the crying-kind of upset. It was that different, deadened-kind. Bruce’s shoulders were stiff, but not shaking. Clint could see the side of his face in the darkness, and he looked perfectly calm. Clint clenched his fist into Bruce’s blanket.

 

“I have an idea,” Clint said. Bruce turned his head to look up at him, quizzical. “Stop me if it bothers you.”

 

When Bruce gave the barest hint of a nod, he rolled back over to his side of the fire pit and gathered up his blanket. He tossed it over his shoulders and crawled back over to Bruce, who was still following him curiously with his gaze.

 

He moved incrementally, inch by inch, to lie on the other half of Bruce’s blanket and throw his own blanket over the two of them. Even in darkness, Bruce’s sharp look weighed on him. But Bruce settled down beside him, stretching out long limbs and curling his arm under his head. They were very close, then, sharing body heat but not touching under the rough wool.

 

Clint offered him a crooked smile and shrugged his shoulder. “If you think I’m dead, just open your eyes and look at me. I’ll be right here.”

 

“Okay,” Bruce whispered. He sounded as though he was afraid of waking someone, or perhaps worried about breaking their tentative dance around one another. “Thank you.”

 

“Sure thing,” Clint whispered back, pitching his voice low as well and unconsciously mirroring Bruce. “This is all right?”

 

“Yes, it’s fine.” Bruce offered him a tiny, honest smile.

 

Clint relaxed after that. He let his heart stop racing and his eyes fall shut. He could feel Bruce looking at him as he dozed, his light dreams peppered with thoughts of brown eyes and nervous, worried hands sliding together.

 

When he awoke the next morning, Bruce was still looking.

 

*

 

The town was tiny, but it did have a little hostel that received intermittent electricity. Bruce rigged up a handful of wires to Clint’s phone and Clint watched the battery slowly inch its way back to life.

 

They stayed the night in the hostel, and then the next night, and the one after that. Days passed slowly in the town; backpackers filtered in and out. Some shared languages with Clint or Bruce and tried to strike up conversations. Clint was happy to listen. Bruce seemed like happiness was a foreign concept to him.

 

It was on the fourth day, as he looked at Bruce curled around himself pretending to sleep, that Clint realized something. He was ashamed that he hadn’t realized it before.

 

He realized that Bruce was broken. It was not a bad thing, to be broken, for Clint was broken too, but Bruce seemed to be slipping inexorably away from him. Bruce breathed and ate and slept, but it seemed he received no joy in anything anymore. Clint clenched his fists and tried not to panic as he realized that Bruce was depressed—well and truly just _empty_ inside, in that low place that Tony had once talked about when he’d gathered all the Avengers in a room and made them swear they would _never_ let Bruce get to that place again. But here Bruce was. And that scared him.

 

So Clint realized something else. That as much as he wanted to, as much as _Bruce_ probably wanted him to, he couldn’t do this alone.

 

He had to call it in.

 

He slipped out of the hostel knowing that Bruce wouldn’t be going anywhere. His StarkPhone of course got service even in the middle of nowhere, and for once Clint was glad for Tony’s obsession with perfection. It was automatic for Clint to slip Bruce’s anti-tracking device onto his phone and dial the Avengers communal number. He listened to it ring once, twice, and almost sighed in relief when Steve answered.

 

“Avengers. Emergency?”

 

“Steve, it’s Clint.” He heard Steve let out a breath. “How are…things?”

 

“Things are fine,” Steve said carefully, clearly using his same language to appease Clint. “Are things all right with you?”

 

“Not…exactly.” Clint glanced back at the dilapidated hostel. He could still picture Bruce curled up beneath the blankets and sleeping to escape his waking dreams. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say; two sides of himself were warring over whether this was even a good idea. He still felt like he was betraying Bruce by calling it in, even though staying out alone was destroying Bruce slowly.

 

“Well,” Steve said eventually, when it was clear Clint wasn’t going to continue that line of thought. “Are you both there?”

 

“Yes,” Clint said, figuring that if he said _sort of_ it wouldn’t go over well. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and finally gave in. “I think…I think we need an extraction.”

 

“Okay.” Steve sounded more confident now. “We can get a jet to your position in about eight hours. Think you can be ready?”

 

“How do you know where we are?” Clint felt a little woozy.

 

“We’ve always known where you are, Clint,” Steve said. Clint had to bite back a swear at his words. “You do know about the tracker in your bow?”

 

“Fuck,” Clint said eloquently. His mind swam as he tried to puzzle through it, wondering why they hadn’t had Tony knocking down their door the first night. Then he thought of Bruce in the passenger’s seat of their tiny silver car and remembered how Bruce had declared there were no trackers in Clint’s bow after systematically destroying all his arrows.

 

“Is everything all right?”

 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He clenched and unclenched his fist methodically. “Just great to know that Bruce places his own happiness as less important than an inanimate object.”

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind.” He sighed and glanced around the dusty streets. “Send the jet. We’ll be ready.”

 

He and Steve exchanged a few more words before Clint clicked his phone off and pocketed it. He stood outside for a moment to center himself, concentrating on the warm breeze. When he went back into the hostel he wasn’t surprised to find Bruce still lying in the same positon he’d left him in.

 

He bit his lower lip in worry. This was going to be the hard part.

 

He sat down beside Bruce, but before he could say anything Bruce spoke for them.

 

“Are they coming?”

 

Clint winced, wondering if Bruce had better hearing than he’d thought. “Bruce, I’m sorry.”

 

Bruce rolled over, the blanket trailing down his arms as it caught beneath him. He fixed his blank gaze onto Clint and shrugged gently. “It’s probably the right choice.”

 

“I’m worried about you, Bruce,” Clint said candidly, and had to look away from Bruce’s unwavering gaze. “I’m not trained—I don’t have the right knowledge to help you. I think that you’re depressed.”

 

“You’re probably right.”

 

Surprised, Clint glanced back at him. He watched the way Bruce played with the edge of his blanket, running his thumb over the threads lightly. Bruce offered him a rusty smile, broken around the edges.

 

“You should hate me,” Clint told him, and felt a tight coil of despair in his gut as Bruce _chuckled_ at his statement.

 

“I couldn’t hate you, Clint.” His laugh was all wrong, sad and self-deprecating and exactly what Clint had hoped they were moving away from. But then Bruce settled into an honest, hopeful smile that took the edge off his worry. “You’re trying to do what’s best.”

 

With a groan, Clint pressed himself back against the floor. He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to rub away the tiredness he felt at Bruce’s words. “Trying and fucking up,” he told him. “I promised you we wouldn’t go back unless you wanted.”

 

He could feel Bruce looking at him, and after a moment he heard Bruce shift around. He glanced over in time for Bruce to drape his blanket over the two of them and curl up a little closer. Clint felt a little odd as they shared space, almost-not-quite touching.

 

“Bruce?”

 

“Reminding myself you’re not dead,” Bruce said simply. He never took his eyes off Clint’s face.

 

Clint rolled over so they were facing one another properly. He wanted to reach out and touch, but was afraid to even ask in their delicate balance. “I’m not going to die on you,” he said instead. “And that’s a promise I will keep.”

 

Bruce’s face softened at his words, like a tiny weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It must have been miniscule—a grain of sand when Bruce was crushed under the whole ocean—but Clint was glad he could do something to help. “That’s the only promise I need from you.”

 

*

 

They watched the jet land in the field together, standing side-by-side.

 

Bruce’s hair was whipping in the wind, and he had his backpack hanging off one shoulder and his blanket draped over his arm. Clint couldn’t help but look over at him as Steve and Natasha exited the jet and began to cross the great expanse of field to get to them.

 

He almost thought he saw a slight smile on Bruce’s face as Bruce turned to look back at him. Bruce leaned in a little, his hand reaching out towards Clint. “Is this all right?”

 

“Sure,” Clint said. He mirrored Bruce’s actions, letting the other man lead, and found that soon they were holding hands. Their fingers interlaced and Bruce’s palm was warm and rough against his, unyielding and comforting. “Is this okay with you?” he asked when they were settled.

 

He felt Bruce squeeze his hand slightly in answer before pulling him forward. Together, they walked to meet Steve and Natasha halfway. They fell into sync with one another, footsteps carrying them evenly through scrubby grass.

 

“I think it’s okay,” Bruce said while they were still just outside of hearing range for Steve. “I’m…ready to go home.”

 

It wasn’t perfect. Bruce couldn’t look at him, and likely still couldn’t look at himself. Steve was too sudden with clapping Bruce on the back, and Natasha slipped too close to him as they boarded the jet. Their lives were still broken at the edges, like pieces of metal that didn’t fit together quite right. It was almost terrible in its somberness. There should have been no place to find hope, no residual desperate confidence that things would turn out all right in the end.

 

But Clint still found himself smiling when Bruce didn’t drop his hand. When, instead, they settled near each other in the harsh leather seats. His smile confused his mouth, making him lean in to mutter against Bruce’s ear, an echo of that night in Saskatchewan.

 

“You’re a person who is loved, okay?”

 

Bruce almost smiled back. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft and rough and honest. “Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of _Run, Banner! Run!_
> 
> You can read some meta for this fic on my [ tumblr.](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/94836656085/meta-on-run-banner-run)


End file.
